EWING'S  LADY 


CALIF 


.  LIBRARY.  LOS  ANGElE*' 


EWING'S  LADY 


<By 
HARRY  LEON  WILSON 

Author  of  "The  Spenders" 


D.    APPLETON    AND    COMPANY 

NEW    YORK 

J907 


COPYRIGHT,  1907,  BY 
D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 

COPYKIGHT,    1907,    BY 

AINSLEE  MAGAZINE  COMPANY 


Published,  November,  1907 


To  N.  B.  T. 


2132830 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I. — EWING'S  KID i 

II. — A  LADY  LOSES  HERSELF      ....    12 

III. — A  PRIVATE  VIEW 20 

IV. — A  PORTRAIT 32 

V. — INTO  THE  PAST  AND  OUT     ....    43 

VI. — THE  LADY  AND  THE  PLAN    ....    55 

VII. — Two  SLEEPERS  AWAKEN       ....    64 

VIII. — THE  JOURNEY  WONDER  .      .      .      .      .     71 

IX. — A  DINNER  AT  SEVEN-THIRTY      .      .      .83 

X. — THE  WAY  OF  THE  LITTLE  MAN  ...    97 

XI. — A  NIGHT  AT  THE  MONASTERY     .      .      .  105 

XII. — THE  NEW  MEMBER 124 

XIII. — SEARCHING  THE  WILDERNESS      .      .      .131 

XIV. — THE  TRICK  OF  COLOR 140 

XV. — FLESH  OF  HER  FLESH 147 

XVI. — TEEVAN  AS  SPECIAL  PROVIDENCE      .      .156 

XVII. — AN  ELUSIVE  VENUS 164 

XVIII.— MRS.  LAITHE  is  IN 174 

vii 


Contents 

CHAPTER  .  PAG* 

XIX.— THE  UNBLAZED  WAY 185 

XX. — A  LADY  BLUSHES 196 

XXI. — THE  DRAMA  IN  NINTH  STREET       .      .  203 

XXII.— A  REVOLT 211 

XXIII.— THE  LITTLE  LAND 222 

XXIV. — EWING  INTERRUPTS 231 

XXV. — MRS.  LAITHE  is  ENLIGHTENED       .      .  247 

XXVI.— THE  SUNSET  TRAIL 256 

XXVII.— THE  HILLS  OF  REST 262 

XXVIIL— THE  WHITE  TIME 273 

XXIX. — THE  AWAKENING 279 

XXX. — THE  HARDEST  THING 290 

XXXI.— THE  MISSION  OF  EWING     ....  304 
XXXII. — THE  TURNING  OF  COONEY        .      .      .313 


Vlll 


EWING'S  LADY 


CHAPTER  I 
SWING'S  KID 

TWO  weeks  of  instructive  contact  with  the  Bar-7 
school  of  gallantry  had  prepared  Mrs.  Laithe 
to  be  amazed  at  her  first  encounter  with  Ewing's 
kid.  Riding  out  from  the  ranch  one  afternoon  and 
turning,  for  coolness,  up  the  wooded  mesa  that  rises  from 
the  creek  flat,  she  overwhelmed  him  at  a  bend  in  the 
trail.  Stricken  motionless,  he  glared  at  the  lady  with 
eyes  in  which  she  was  compelled  to  believe  that  she 
read  more  horror  than  admiration.  There  was  a  mo- 
ment of  this ;  then  her  pony  neighed  a  greeting  to  the 
statue — of  dusty  bronze — as  if  to  say  that  things  were 
not  so  bad  as  they  seemed,  and  the  gazing  youth  broke 
the  spell  his  vision  had  laid  upon  him.  He  bowed  his 
head  doggedly  and  vanished  beyond  some  low-growing 
cedars  that  lined  the  way. 

As  he  fled  the  lady  laughed  softly,  yet  was  silent, 
with  face  austerely  set  as  she  passed  the  point  of  his 
evanishment.  His  behavior  recalled  that  of  a  deer  she 
had  terrorized  one  day  in  this  same  green  isle  of  the 
woods;  and  she  had  laughed  the  same  furtive  laugh,  as 

I 


Ewing's  Lady 

if  in  confidence  to  herself,  when  the  creature  tossed  its 
head  in  challenge,  pawed  the  earth  with  a  dainty 
bravado,  and  then  fled  in  such  an  ecstasy  of  panic  that 
she  could  hear  it  crashing  through  the  underbrush  long 
after  it  had  vanished.  But  this  human  woods-creature 
had  gone  silently;  and  no  great  way,  she  suspected — far 
enough  only  to  screen  himself  while  his  eyes  still  held 
her  through  some  opening  in  the  green  curtain.  Where- 
fore let  us  comprehend  the  mien  of  austerity  as  she 
passed. 

Elusiveness  in  the  male,  be  it  bluntly  said,  was  con- 
founding to  the  experience  of  Mrs.  Laithe  since  she  had 
ventured  into  the  San  Juan  Mountains  under  the  nominal 
care  of  an  inattentive  brother,  and  her  belief  was  still 
firm  that  the  men  about  her  suffered  little  from  shy- 
ness. This  latest  specimen  would  be  a  single  variation 
from  type  and  of  slight  value  in  determining  the  ways 
of  his  kind. 

As  her  pony  picked  its  way  up  the  trail  she  mused  over 
the  not  unpleasant  picture  of  the  youth  at  bay.  It 
was  a  thing  to  be  caught  at  the  moment,  for  she  would 
find  him  otherwise,  she  believed,  at  their  next  meeting. 
She  would  come  on  him  some  day  at  Bar-y,  or  at  one 
of  the  ranches  neighboring  it,  and  find  him  quite  like 
his  fellows,  rigidly  respectful,  but  with  a  self-confidence 
and  a  simple  directness  in  his  gallantry  that  had  enter- 
tained her  not  a  little  as  practiced  by  local  courtiers. 
He  would  be  like  the  others,  from  Beulah  Pierce,  owner 
of  Bar-y,  down  to  Shane  Riley,  humble  helper  in  the 
cookhouse. 

An  hour  later,  refreshed  by  the  balsam-laden  air  of  the 
upper  reaches,  she  left  the  woods  at  the  foot  of  the  mesa 
and  rode  out  on  the  willow  flat,  lush  with  grass  for  Bar- 

2 


Ewing's  Kid 

7's  winter  feeding.  From  the  first  bench  above  the 
creek  she  descried  the  figures  of  two  men  in  front  of 
the  ranch  house.  One  she  saw  to  be  Beulah  Pierce, 
his  incredible  length  draped  lazily  over  the  gate  that 
opened  into  his  wife's  flower  garden.  Outside  this  gate, 
under  the  flow  of  his  talk  (Pierce  would  surely  be  talking) 
stood  one  whom  the  lady,  riding  nearer,  identified  as 
the  youth  who  so  lately  had  shirked  a  meeting  with  her. 
At  this  sight  she  warmed  with  a  little  glow  of  pride  in 
her  powers  of  prophecy.  Truly  he  had  waited  no  long 
time.  His  hat  was  off  and  he  leaned  restfully  against 
the  withers  of  a  saddled  horse,  a  horse  that  drooped, 
head  to  the  ground,  in  some  far  low  level  of  dejection. 
She  laughed  again,  comprehending  the  fellow  at  last. 
His  variation  from  type  had  been  but  seeming,  due  to 
an  erratic  but  not  constitutional  embarrassment.  Bra- 
zenly enough  now  he  contrived  to  await  her  coming, 
craftily  engaging  the  not  difficult  Pierce  in  idle  talk. 
And  Pierce,  as  she  rode  up,  would  perform,  with  stiff 
importance,  the  orthodox  ceremony  of  presentation. 
Whereupon  the  youth  would  bow  with  visible  effort, 
shake  her  hand  with  a  rigid  cordiality,  once  up,  once 
down,  and  remark,  after  swallowing  earnestly,  "  Pleased 
to  meet  you,  ma'am!"  or  perhaps,  "Glad  to  make  your 
acquaintance!"  Then,  tactfully  affecting  to  ignore  her, 
he  would  demand  if  Pierce  had  seen  anything  of  that 
buckskin  mare  and  colt  that  strayed  off  last  Tuesday; 
or  if  anyone  had  brought  mail  up  from  Pagosa  Springs 
lately;  or  if  Pierce  happened  to  need  two  thousand 
hemlock  shakes.  This  query  he  would  follow  with 
a  popular  local  witticism  concerning  sheepmen  or  the 
Colorado  climate — nominally  addressed  to  Pierce  but 
intended  for  her  own  refreshment.  And,  in  readjusting 

3 


Ewing's  Lady 

the  silk  kerchief  at  his  throat,  he  would  manage  a  quick 
side  glance  at  her  to  see  how  she  relished  the  jest.  For 
Mrs.  Laithe  had  learned  their  ways  in  two  weeks,  and 
this  was  one  of  them — to  favor  one  another  with  witty 
sallies  in  her  presence,  and  solely  in  her  behalf.  All 
the  men  of  Bar- 7  practiced  this  amiable  strategy.  When 
a  group  of  them  assembled  within  her  hearing  the  swift 
exchange  of  repartee,  accompanied  by  the  inevitable 
side  glance,  was  a  thing  to  wonder  at. 

Indeed,  the  lady  had  learned  their  ways.  Even  be- 
fore she  neared  the  gate  Alonzo  Pierce,  son  of  Beulah, 
appeared  round  the  corner  of  the  ranch  house  to  take 
her  pony,  sauntering  with  a  flagrant  ennui,  in  full 
knowledge  that  Sandy  Goodhue  had  started  violently 
on  the  same  gallant  mission,  but  from  the  farthest  corral. 
Shane  Riley,  chained  by  his  labors  to  the  doorway  of 
the  cookhouse,  smirked  genially  out  over  a  pot  that  he 
polished;  and  Red  Phinney,  star  rider  at  Bar-7,  seated 
himself  on  the  step  before  the  front  door,  so  that  he 
might  have  to  arise  with  flourishing  apologies — a  per- 
formance that  would  move  the  lady  to  ask  about  his 
sprained  wrist,  now  in  bandage. 

This  familiar  assembling  of  her  court,  professedly 
casual,  was  swiftly  detected  by  Mrs.  Laithe.  But  she 
saw  now,  being  near  the  gate,  a  quick  turning  toward 
her  of  the  strange  youth.  It  was  a  brief,  impersonal 
survey  that  seemed  not  to  disengage  her  from  the  back- 
ground of  gray  road  and  yellowish-green  willows;  but 
clearly  it  sufficed.  With  a  curt  nod  to  Pierce  he  was 
mounted;  in  another  breath  his  amazed  and  indignant 
horse,  spurred  viciously  from  its  trance,  raged  with 
protesting  snorts  over  the  road  to  the  east.  As  Mrs. 
Laithe  reined  up  at  the  gate  she  beheld,  through  a  nim- 

4 


Ewing's  Kid 

bus  of  dust,  the  rider's  boots  groping  pathetically  for 
their  stirrups. 

She  repressed  a  little  gasp  of  astonishment  in  which 
the  natural  woman  might  have  betrayed  her  view  of  so 
headlong  a  retreat,  although,  had  Beulah  Pierce  been 
alone  at  the  gate,  she  might  have  descended  to  speech 
with  him  about  this  strangely  retiring  youth.  But 
as  'L,on  Pierce  waited  for  her  pony,  with  a  masterly 
taunt  for  Sandy  Goodhue,  who  came  up  breathless  but 
late,  and  as  Red  Phinney  had  already  risen  from  his  ob- 
structive seat  in  the  doorway,  his  wrist  held  cunningly 
forward  to  provoke  solicitous  inquiry,  the  lady  passed 
in  with  only  such  easy  words  as  the  moment  demanded. 
She  was  reflecting,  with  agreeable  interest,  that  the 
young  man's  avoidance  of  her  would  presently  begin  to 
seem  pointed. 

This  conjecture  was  to  be  abundantly  confirmed. 
Returning  from  her  ride  the  following  afternoon,  she  saw 
that  the  youth  must  pass  her  on  the  public  highway. 
They  were  out  on  the  flat,  with  no  arboreal  sanctuary 
for  the  timid  one.  The  lady  looked  forward  with  genial 
malice  to  a  meeting  which,  it  appeared,  he  was  now  pow- 
erless to  avoid.  But  the  youth,  perceiving  his  plight, 
instantly  had  trouble  with  a  saddle  girth.  Turning 
well  out  of  the  road,  he  dismounted  on  the  farther  side 
of  his  horse  and  busied  himself  with  the  mechanics  of 
proper  cinching.  As  Mrs.  Laithe  rode  by  she  saw 
only  the  top  of  a  wide-brimmed  gray  hat  above  the 
saddle. 

The  day  following,  when,  in  an  orderly  sequence  of 
events,  they  should  have  met  at  the  ford,  he  turned  with 
admirable  promptness  down  the  stream,  where  no  trail 
was,  sharply  scanning  the  thinned  edge  of  a  wood  in 

5 


Ewing's  Lady 

the  perfect  manner  of  one  absorbed  in  a  search  for  lost 
stock.  Clearly,  his  was  a  mind  fertile,  if  not  subtle,  in 
resource. 

Not  until  a  day  later  did  he  come  truly  to  face  her, 
and  then  only  by  the  circumstance  of  his  being  penned  by 
her  within  the  high-walled  corral  where  Red  Phinney 
broke  green  horses  to  ride,  work  or  carry.  Returning  this 
day  earlier  than  was  her  wont,  and  finding  no  one  at  the 
front  of  the  house  to  take  her  pony,  she  had  ridden  back 
to  the  corrals.  Here  she  delivered  the  animal  to  Phin- 
ney, but  not  before  the  timid  one  had  been  compelled 
to  pass  her.  He  did  this,  she  thought,  only  after  swiftly 
calculating  the  height  of  the  walls  that  pent  him.  And 
though  his  hat  was  doffed  as  he  hurtled  by,  his  eyes 
were  on  the  ground.  Mrs.  Laithe,  feeling  thus  at  liberty 
to  stare  brutally  at  him,  felt  a  prodigious  heightening 
of  that  tower  of  amazement  he  had  been  rearing  within 
her  mind,  for  she  saw  him  blush  most  furiously;  beheld 
it  under  the  brown  of  his  beardless  face. 

Yet  there  was  more  in  the  young  face  than  this  flaunted 
banner  of  embarrassment;  and  scanning  it  intently,  she 
resolved  forthwith  to  know  him. 

Late  that  day  she  was  pleased  to  come  upon  Beulah 
Pierce  alone  in  the  big  living  room  of  the  ranch  house. 
Smoking  a  last  pipe  before  the  call  to  supper,  Beulah 
relaxed  on  the  "  lounge"  after  a  toilsome  season  of  ditch- 
making. 

"Oh,  him?"  he  answered,  luxuriously  extending 
legs  that  seemed  much  too  long  for  any  reasonable  need 
of  man,  and  pulling  at  his  ragged  red  mustache.  "  Why, 
that's  Ewing's  kid." 

"Ewing?"  retorted  Mrs.  Laithe,  provocatively,  win- 
ningly. 

6 


Ewing's  Kid 

"Ewing,"  affirmed  Pierce,  with  unaccustomed  brev- 
ity, his  mind  at  dalliance  with  other  matters. 

"Ewing's  kid,"  murmured  the  lady,  as  if  in  careless 
musing. 

"Sure,  Ewing's  kid — Hi  Mighty!  I  struck  one  o' 
them  willow  roots  to-day,  on  that  piece  o'  ditch  over  on 
the  west  forty,  an'  say!  it  yanked  me  clean  over  the 
plow  handles.  It  did,  fur  a  fact — straightened  me  out 
like  a  whiplash.  It  scraped  all  the  wall  paper  off'n  this 
left  shoulder  o'  mine  when  I  landed,  too,  say  nothin'  o' 
the  jounce  it  give  me.  Ma,  whur's  that  embrycation 
fur  man  and  beast?"  And  Beulah  laid  a  gentle  hand  on 
the  abraded  member. 

"After  you've  et  a  bite,"  called  his  wife  from  the  next 
room.  "Shane  has  the  things  all  on,  so  come  along  an' 
set  up." 

Beulah  erected  himself  with  an  unctuous  groan  and 
spoke  his  favorite  jest:  "Wa'al,  le's  go  out  an'  see 
what  the  neighbors  has  brought  in." 

The  meal  over,  Mrs.  L,aithe  again  found  herself  with 
Pierce  in  the  living  room.  She  sat  on  the  bearskin 
before  the  open  fire,  her  hands  clasped  about  her  knees. 
Through  the  dancing  jets  of  flame  she  observed  the  kid 
of  Ewing  with  his  downward,  troubled  face.  Pierce, 
tucking  shreds  of  tobacco  into  the  bowl  of  his  pipe, 
glanced  toward  her,  the  light  of  coming  talk  in  his  eyes. 

"How'd  you  like  that  there  little  red  roan  you're 
ridin',  Mis'  Laithe?"  he  began. 

"Cooney?  Oh,  Cooney's  a  dear,  generally.  Some- 
times he's  stubborn  and  pretends  to  know  the  way 
better  than  I  do." 

"Sound  and  kind,  though,  I  bet  you." 

"OH,  yes;  but  when  I  want  to  ride  down  the  east 

7 


Swing's  Lady 

side  of  the  valley,  why  does  he  always  try  to  go  up  that 
steep  trail  to  the  left?  Sometimes  I've  quite  a  strug- 
gle to  keep  him  in  the  valley  road." 

"Wa'al,  you  see  I  bought  him  off'n  Ewing's  kid  an' 
he  wants  to  git  back  home.  Sure's  ever  we  dast  let 
him  loose  with  the  saddle  band,  he's  over  to  Ewing's 
place,  come  sun-up.  You  give  him  his  head  any  time— 
he'll  carry  you  straight  there." 

"He  will?" 

"Surest  thing  you  know!  When  that  kid  breaks  a 
pony  he  gits  it  all  gentled  up  so's  it  hones  to  git  back 
to  him." 

"How  interesting!" 

"  Naw— makes  lashin's  o'  trouble  fur  them  that  buys 
off'n  him.  Say,  Mis'  Laithe,  you  was  askin'  about 
Ewing's  kid." 

"Was  I?"     She  looked  politely  blank. 

"Sure  you  was — jest  'fore  supper.  Wa'al,  Ewing's 
kid  is  the  son  of  a  man  named — now  hear  me  talk! 
Course  he's  his  father's  son.  Wa'al,  anyway,  this  man 
Ewing  comes  in  here  with  this  kid  about  fifteen,  sixteen 
year  ago,  an'  takes  that  place  over  there  by  the  lake  to 
git  cured  up  o'  the  consumption.  He  was  a  painter, 
painted  pitchers  an'  all  sech,  understand? — puts  up  a 
big  stoodio  with  a  winder  in  it  six  feet  high  to  paint  by. 
But  he  was  puny.  He  couldn't  fat  up  none.  You  never 
seen  a  critter  so  gaunted  as  he  was.  Some  said  he 
never  got  over  losin'  his  wife.  Anyway,  't  wa'n't  no  sur- 
prise when  he  was  took  off,  seven,  eight  year  ago.  An' 
since  he  died  that  there  kid  has  sort  o'  half  run  the  place 
along  with  a  feller  named  Ben  Crider  that  the  old  man 
had  got  fur  help.  0'  course  we  all  kind  o'  looked  in  on 
the  boy  at  first  to  make  sure  he  wa'n't  in  need,  an'  done 

8 


Ewing's  Kid 

a  day's  work  now  an'  then,  an'  they  raised  a  few  horses 
an'  a  few  cattle  an'  one  thing  an'  another.  Trouble 
with  that  boy,  though,  he's  always  putterin'  round  with 
his  dad's  paint  brushes,  an'  talkin'  about  portrayin' 
art  an'  all  like  that,  understand?  I've  told  that  kid 
time  an'  time  again,  'Kid,'  I  says,  'never  you  mind  about 
portrayin'  art  an'  depictin'  the  linnerments  an'  the 
varied  aspecks  o'  nature,'  I  says;  'you  jes'  burn  up  them 
foolish  little  long-shanked  paint  brushes  in  your  Charter 
Oak  cookstove,'  I  says,  'an'  ten'  to  portrayin'  a  good 
little  bunch  of  cattle  an'  depictin'  Ben  Crider  to  work 
also,  an'  you'll  git  somewhur's,  I  says.  But  him — why, 
he  jes'  moons  along.  An'  Ben  Crider  ain't  much  better. 
Ben  ain't  no  stimulant  to  him.  Ben  had  ort  to  been  the 
only  son  of  a  tenderhearted  widow  lady  of  means. 
That's  what  he'd  ort  to  been.  You  give  him  a  new  coon 
song  out  of  a  Sunday  supplement  an'  his  guitar,  an' 
Ben's  fixed  fur  half  a  day  at  least.  He  ain't  goin'  to 
worry  none  about  a  strayed  yearlin'  or  two.  Why,  one 
time,  I  rec'lect " 

"Then  young  Mr.  Ewing  is  a  painter,  too?"  she 
interrupted. 

"Wa'al" — Pierce  became  judicial — "yes  an'  no.  He 
ain't  a  reg'ler  one,  like  you  might  say — not  like  his  pa 
was.  Still,  he  can  do  hand  paintin' — if  you  want  to 
call  it  that.  Made  a  pitcher  o'  me  this  summer,  bein' 
buckjumped  by  old  Tobe.  Tobe  was  cert'n'y  actin' 
high,  wide  an'  handsome,  comin'  down  with  his  four 
hoofs  in  a  bunch,  an'  me  lookin'  like  my  works  was  corn- 
in'  all  apart  the  next  minute.  A  lively  pitcher — yes; 
but,  my  Lord!  it  wa'n't  a  thing  you  could  show!  It 
made  me  out  that  reediculous.  Course,  I  ain't  Mrs. 
Langtry,  but  you  got  to  draw  the  line  somewhurs, 

2  9 


Ewing's  Lady 

hain't  you?  Now  there"—  Beulah  pushed  an  informing 
thumb  toward  crayon  portraits  of  himself  and  Mrs. 
Pierce  that  graced  the  opposite  wall  in  frames  of  massive 
gilt,  one  on  either  side  of  the  organ—"  that's  what  you 
can  call  art  —  drawn  by  a  reg'ler  one  down  to  Durango— 
everything  showin'  like  it  ort  to,  expressions  an'  all, 
even  down  to  Ma  Pierce's  breastpin  an'  my  watch 
chain,  made  out  o'  my  own  mother's  hair.  They're 
decent  pitchers.  That  other  one  was  plumb  indecent, 
I  can  tell  you.  Ma  she  up  an'  hid  it  away,  quick  as  she 
seen  it." 

"And  has  he  done  other  things?" 

"Hey?" 

"Painted  other  pictures?" 

"Slathers  —  horses  an'  animals  an'  Ben  Crider  with 
his  gun  an'  all  sech,  an'  deer.  Say  now,  I  seen  another 
artist  down  to  the  Durango  fair  last  fall  that  was  a 
genuine  w6nder  an'  no  mistake.  He  was  writin'  callin' 
cards  at  a  little  table,  an'  he  could  draw  a  runnin'  deer 
all  in  flourishes  an'  curlycurves,  without  liftin'  his 
pen  from  the  card,  all  slick  an'  natural  as  you'd  want 


"Did  you  know  his  mother?" 

"  No-o-o  —  didn't  even  know  him.  I  jest  stopped  to 
look  an'  he  drawed  a  fine  big  bird  right  while  I  watched, 
havin'  a  ribbon  in  its  bill  with  my  name  on  it  in  red  ink  ; 
about  as  tasty  a  thing  as  you'd  care  to  see,  fur  a  quarter 
of  a  dollar.  It's  round  the  house  somewhur  now,  I 
reckon,  if  you  -  " 

"Ewing's  kid's  mother?" 

"  Hey?  Oh,  no,  I  never  knew  that  lady.  She  passed 
away  sommers  off  up  the  state  before  these  other  parties 
moved  in." 

IO 


Ewing's  Kid 

"Does  the  boy  resemble  his  father?" 

"Ewing?  Wa'al,  not  to  say  resemble.  In  fact  he 
didn't  favor  him,  not  at  all,  that  I  can  rec'lect.  He 
must  of  been  most  like  his  ma." 

The  lady  had  been  speaking  as  from  a  distance,  staring 
fixedly  into  the  fire,  with  the  distraction  of  one  engaged 
in  some  hopeless  feat  of  memo.ry.  So  intently  aloof 
was  she  that  Pierce  had  to  repeat  his  next  remark. 

"I  say,  you  don't  never  want  to  let  Cooney  git  you 
started  up  that  trail  you  was  speakin'  about.  First 
place,  it's  steeper'n  the  side  of  a  house.  Next  place, 
ever  let  him  git  you  to  the  top,  he'd  land  you  slambang 
over  to  Ewing's,  spite  of  all  you  could  do." 

"Thank  you!  I'll  be  sure  to  remember  that.  Good 
night!" 

She  left  him,  still  with  the  far-centered,  puzzled  look 
on  her  face — the  shadow  of  some  resemblance,  indefinite, 
nameless,  but  insistent. 


ii 


CHAPTER  II 

A   LADY  LOSES  HERSELF 

ONLY  a  few  miles  separate  Bar-7  from  the  Ewing 
place;  but  they  are  interesting  miles  and  at 
least  one  of  them  will  be  found  exciting  by  the 
town-bred  novice.  There  is  a  stretch  where  the  trail 
leaves  the  valley  road  and  zigzags  up  the  face  of  the 
east  bench  to  a  height  from  which  one  may  survey  the 
whole  sleeping  valley  of  the  Wimmenuche  as  through 
a  reducing  glass.  The  way  seems  no  broader  than  one's 
hand,  and  to  Mrs.  Laithe,  who  approached  it  from  across 
the  flat  and  studied  it  for  the  first  time  as  a  practicable 
thoroughfare,  it  looked  to  be  impossibly  perpendicular; 
a  climb  that  no  horse  in  its  right  mind  would  attempt, 
an  angle  of  elevation  that  no  rider  could  sustain. 

Brought  to  incredulity  by  this  survey,  she  pulled 
Cooney  to  a  walk  as  she  neared  the  parting  of  the  ways. 
Then,  indecisively,  she  let  the  bridle  rein  fall  on  his  neck. 
The  little  horse  loitered  on,  splashing  through  the  creek 
with  a  few  leisurely  sips  of  its  icy  water  (taken  merely 
in  the  spirit  of  a  connoisseur),  and  a  moment  later  halted 
where  the  bench  trail  turned  out.  At  the  beginning 
of  his  intimacy  with  his  present  rider  he  had  adopted 
rushing  tactics  at  this  point,  leaping  at  the  trail  in  a  fine 
pretense  that  no  other  way  could  have  been  thought  of, 
and  showing  a  hurt  bewilderment  when  the  sudden 
pull  brought  him  about  and  into  the  valley  road.  For 
that  was  a  road  that  led  nowhere,  since  it  led  away  from 

12 


A  Lady  Loses  Herself 


his  home.  Day  after  day  he  had  played  this  game, 
seemingly  with  an  untouched  faith  that  some  time  he 
would  win.  Day  after  day  had  he  exercised  all  his  powers 
of  astonished  protest  when  the  frustrating  tug  was  felt. 
But  these  tugs  had  become  sharper,  to  betoken  the 
rider's  growing  impatience,  and  it  may  be  surmised  that 
on  this  day  Cooney  had  lost  his  faith.  If  it  were  inevi- 
table that  one  should  be  whirled  back  into  the  broad, 
foolish  way,  one  might  save  effort  by  omitting  that  first 
futile  rush;  one  might  stop  and  let  evil  come.  Cooney 
stopped  now,  drooping  in  languid  cynicism. 

His  rider  waited,  wishing  that  he  had  not  stopped; 
wishing  he  had  rushed  the  trail  as  always  before.  She 
felt  the  need  of  every  excuse  for  daring  the  hazards  of 
that  climb.  Cooney  waited — and  waited — morosely 
anticipating  the  corrective  jerk  of  a  rider  who  refused  to 
guide  him  properly  by  pressing  a  rein  across  his  neck. 
The  shock  was  delayed.  Cooney  thrilled,  aspiring  joy- 
ously. He  waited  still  another  uncertain  moment, 
bracing  his  slim  legs.  At  last,  with  a  quick  indrawing 
of  breath,  he  sprang  up  the  only  desirable  trail  in  all 
the  world,  with  an  energy  of  scurrying  hoofs  that  con- 
fined his  rider's  attention  wholly  to  keeping  her  seat. 
She  hardly  dared  look  down  even  when  the  little  horse 
stopped  on  a  narrow  ledge  to  breathe.  Nor  did  Cooney 
tarry.  Still  fearful,  perhaps,  of  that  deadly  backward 
jerk,  he  stopped  but  once  again  before  the  summit  was 
reached.  Doubtless  he  suspected  that  the  most  should 
be  made  of  this  probably  fleeting  mood  of  compliance 
in  one  who  had  hitherto  shown  herself  inveterately 
hostile  to  his  most  cherished  design. 

Looking  back  over  the  ascent  while  the  stanch  little 
animal  panted  under  her,  Mrs.  Laithe  discovered  that  the 

13 


Ewing's  Lady 

thing  had  been  worth  while.  The  excitement  had  been 
pleasurable  and  the  view  was  a  thing  to  climb  for.  On 
the  north  the  valley  narrowed  to  a  canon,  its  granite  sides 
muffled  in  clouds  of  soft  green  spruce.  To  the  south  it 
widened  away  until,  beyond  a  broad  plain,  quickened 
with  flying  cloud  shadows,  a  long,  low-lying  range  of 
blue  hills  showed  hazily,  far  over  the  New  Mexico  border. 
Straight  before  her,  across  the  valley,  were  mountains 
whose  rough  summits  leaped  gray  and  barren  above 
their  ragged  hemming  of  timber — mountains  not  to  be 
seen  from  the  ranch  because  of  the  intervening  mesa. 
But  the  picture  was  not  long  to  be  enjoyed — no  longer 
a  time  than  Cooney  needed  to  recover  his  wind.  He 
was  presently  off  through  a  sparse  grove  of  aspen,  break- 
ing by  his  own  will  into  a  lope  as  they  crossed  a  wide, 
grassy  meadow,  level  between  the  wooded  hills  that 
sloped  to  its  edge  on  either  side.  And  this  was  the  horse 
who,  when  he  bore  her  lazily  up  and  down  the  valley, 
constantly  cropped  the  good  green  stuff  to  right  and 
left,  a  horse  always  before  willing  to  loiter,  or  to  stand 
motionless  for  an  hour  with  his  bridle  rein  on  the  ground, 
while  she  adventured  beyond  him  on  foot.  The  rider 
caught  his  new  spirit  and  laughed  as  she  felt  herself  hur- 
ried to  the  comsummation  of  this  mild  adventure;  hur- 
ried up  the  long  ridge,  ovei  a  cross  system  of  sudden  gul- 
lies, through  another  wide  meadow  of  the  mountains 
where  strange  cattle  paused  to  regard  her  rather  dis- 
concertingly ;  on  through  the  gloom  of  other  woods,  the 
trail  worrying  itself  up  another  ascent,  and  then  out  upon 
an  open  summit  that  looked  down  upon  a  tiny  lake  set 
in  a  cup  of  the  hills.  On  one  side  the  water,  its  shining 
surface  pierced  only  by  the  heaps  of  hungry  trout,  flashed 
the  green  of  chrysoprase  up  to  the  spruce  trees  that  crept 

14 


A  Lady  Loses  Herself 


to  its  edge;  on  the  other  it  mirrored  a  scarred  wall  of 
rock  that  rose  sheer  from  the  water  to  some  far,  incal- 
culable height,  its  summit  carved  into  semblances  of 
buttressed  castles  with  gray  and  splendid  battlements. 

But  Cooney  was  still  loath  to  linger  over  mere  scenery. 
He  hurried  his  rider  down  the  ridge  and  out  on  a  flat  of 
marshy  grass,  thickly  starred  with  purple  gentians. 
Here  he  delayed  only  to  recall,  as  it  later  appeared,  a 
duty  familiar  to  him  in  the  days  before  he  was  sold  into 
bondage.  Standing  across  the  trail  where  it  neared  the 
margin  of  the  lake,  a  sedate-looking  cow  grazed  and  was 
at  peace  with  the  world. 

Looking  up  as  the  horse  bore  down  upon  her,  and  ob- 
serving that  she  was  expected  to  move,  the  cow  did  so 
with  but  slight  signs  of  annoyance  in  the  shaking  of 
her  head.  The  incident,  however,  was  not  thus  simply 
to  be  closed,  for  now  began  that  which  enabled  the 
lady  to  regard  the  day  as  one  of  red  adventure.  Cooney 
swerved  from  the  trail  with  a  suddenness  that  was  like 
to  have  unseated  his  rider.  Then  as  the  cow  halted, 
head  down  and  forefeet  braced,  he  swerved  once  more, 
heading  so  obviously  for  the  beast  that  she  turned  and 
trotted  off  on  the  trail,  mumbling  petulant  remon- 
strance. With  a  knowing  shake  of  his  head  Cooney  fell 
in  behind  her. 

His  intention  might  no  longer  be  mistaken.  He 
meant  to  drive  the  cow.  Did  she  turn  aside,  Cooney 
turned  aside,  ever  alert  for  her  slightest  deviation.  The 
trail  now  lay  through  a  grove  of  spruce  and  balsam 
that  had  been  partially  cleared,  but  the  trees  were 
still  too  many  for  the  lady  to  relish  being  hurtled  among 
them  by  a  volatile  and  too-conscientious  cow  pony.  She 
found  herself  eying  their  charge  as  alertly  as  did  Cooney 

15 


Ewing's  Lady 

himself,  praying  that  the  driven  beast  might  prove  less 
reluctant.  When  she  did  break  from  the  trail  Mrs. 
Laithe  braced  herself  to  meet  Cooney's  simultaneous 
detour,  and  thereafter,  until  the  indignant  animal  was 
again  in  the  beaten  way,  the  rider  was  engaged  in  avoid- 
ing fearful  impact  with  trees  and  entanglement  with 
low-growing  branches.  She  debated  the  wisdom  of 
dropping  from  the  saddle  and  abandoning  herself  to  the 
more  seemly  fate  of  starvation  in  this  wooded  fastness. 
To  be  sure,  there  was  a  chance  that  Cooney  would  rush 
on  to  find  his  late  master,  who  might  return  to  solve 
the  problem  of  the  empty  saddle.  But  even  so,  that 
young  man  would  only  glance  at  her  and  run  swiftly 
away,  after  he  had  blushed.  Moreover  Cooney,  whom 
she  now  believed  to  be  demented,  had  increased  his  speed, 
despite  her  restraining  pulls,  while  the  cow,  in  a  frenzy 
of  desperation,  became  more  daring  in  her  sorties. 

Then,  to  the  glad  relief  of  the  rider,  an  opening 
showed  through  the  trees  close  ahead,  and  in  another 
moment  Cooney  had  galloped  her  out  into  an  extensive 
clearing.  Swiftly  about  its  edge  he  circled,  to  thwart 
a  last  dash  of  his  prey  for  the  glad,  free  grazing  life 
from  which  she  had  so  summarily  been  withdrawn.  Half 
round  the  clearing  they  went  in  the  startled  gaze  of  a 
person  who  had  been  at  work  over  a  deer  hide  in  the 
shade  of  a  mighty  hemlock.  Then,  with  lightning  swerve 
pursued  and  pursuers  fled  straight  and  swiftly  across 
the  clearing— Cooney  close  on  the  flanks  of  his  prize— 
into  the  astounded  vision  of  Ewing's  kid,  who  had 
sauntered  to  the  open  door  at  the  sound  of  flying 
hoofs. 

Hereupon  the  little  roan  abandoned  his  task,  halting 
before  the  figure  in  the  doorway.  The  halt  was  so  abrupt 

16 


A  Lady  Loses  Herself 


that  Mrs.  Laithe  never  knew  whether  she  dismounted 
or  was  thrown. 

They  looked  at  each  other  helplessly,  the  lady's  eyes 
still  wide  with  the  dismay  that  had  been  growing  in 
them  since  Cooney's  mysterious  seizure.  She  felt  her- 
self trembling  and  she  tried  to  smile.  The  young  man 
released  the  arm  he  had  seized  to  support  her  and 
stepped  back,  putting  a  hand  up  to  Cooney,  who  had 
been  mouthing  his  sleeve  with  little  whinnies  of 
rejoicing. 

Then  the  lady  heard  the  voice  of  E wing's  kid,  heard 
him  say  with  quick,  embarrassed  utterance,  "It's  too 
bad  you  went  to  all  that  trouble.  We're  not  milking 
Clara  any  more." 

Still  breathing  rapidly,  she  turned  half  away,  confused 
by  this  cryptic  utterance. 

"  Clara? — I  didn't  know — I  don't — I  beg  your  pardon, 
but  I'm  afraid  I  don't  understand." 

"  Yes,  we  don't  drive  her  in  any  more.  Midge  came  in 
fresh  a  few  weeks  ago,  and  we  let  Clara  run  along  with 
her  calf  again." 

Pondering  this  item,  she  put  her  hands  to  her  head. 
One  of  them  found  her  cap  which  a  low  branch  had  raked 
awry ;  the  other  grasped  a  tangle  of  hair  that  muffled  the 
other  side  of  her  head,  regrettably  out  of  place.  From 
this  surprising  touch  of  things  she  divined  the  picture 
she  must  be  making.  More,  she  saw  herself  dash  into  this 
sylvan  opening  apparently  in  mad  pursuit  of  a  frenzied 
cow;  for,  as  a  requisite  to  keeping  her  seat  in  the  saddle, 
she  had  been  compelled  to  seem  as  eager  in  the  chase 
as  Cooney  himself.  She  sank — collapsed,  rather — upon 
the  broad  slab  of  stone  before  the  door,  laughing 
weakly. 

17 


Ewing's  Lady 

The  youth  looked  down  at  her  with  puzzled  eyes  in 
which  she  saw  alarm  rising. 

"But  I  didn't  try  to  chase  your  cow— I  didn't  want 
to,"  she  broke  out.  "It  was  your  horse;  his  idea,  his 
alone." 

There  was  such  fine,  shy  commiseration  in  his  face  as 
she  rose  that  she  laughed  again. 

"Of  course  it  must  have  been  Cooney's  fault,"  he 
said.  "  I  might  have  known  that.  He  used  to  have  to 
drive  her  in  every  day."  He  regarded  her  for  a  moment 
with  a  sort  of  dumb  chivalry,  then  politely  offered  his 
hand,  saying,  with  a  curious  little  air  of  taught  formality : 
"I'm  very  glad  to  see  you.  Thank  you  so  much  for 
coming!" 

In  avoiding  each  other's  eyes,  as  their  hands  fell  apart, 
they  both  looked  out  to  the  person  who  stooped  busily 
over  a  deer  hide  in  the  shade  of  the  big  hemlock.  His 
view  of  the  circumstance  was  revealing  itself.  Only 
his  rounded  back  could  be  seen,  but  this  rose  and  fell 
in  the  rapid,  rhythmic  convulsions  of  silent  laughter. 
They  turned  quickly  back  to  each  other  and  smiled  in  a 
sudden  sympathy  with  his  mirth. 

"  If  I  may  have  a  glass  of  water —  "  she  suggested,  as  a 
device  for  establishing  ease  between  them. 

" Of  course!"  He  called  to  the  person  under  the  tree, 
arresting  the  back  at  the  height  of  one  of  its  recurrent 
spasms.  The  face  turned  upon  them  was  rigidly  sad, 
a  face  of  almost  saturnine  solemnity,  the  face  of  one  who 
has  been  brought  to  view  life  as  an  engine  of  woe.  As 
he  ambled  dejectedly  toward  them,  his  head  bowed 
from  his  work-bent  shoulders,  the  lines  of  grief  in  his 
face  seemed  to  deepen,  and  a  gnarled  hand  tugged  at 
the  already  drooping  ends  of  his  long  mustache,  as  if  he 

18 


A  Lady  Loses  Herself 


would  be  assured  that  they,  also,  testified  to  the  world's 
objectionableness. 

"Mr.  Crider,  this  is  Mrs.  Laithe — she  has  come  to  see 
us."  The  youth  achieved  this  with  austere  formality. 
The  sad  one  nodded  and  put  forth  his  hand  with  a 
funereal  "Glad  to  know  you,  ma'am!"  as  if  they  met  at 
the  open  grave  of  a  friend. 

"Ben,  won't  you  go  to  the  spring  and  get  her  some 
fresh  water?  She's  thirsty.  She's  had  a  hard  ride." 

The  other  turned  quickly  away,  and  there  was  a  sound 
as  if  he  had  manfully  stifled  a  sob.  Ewing  faced  his 
guest  with  eyes  that  twinkled  a  bit,  she  thought,  beneath 
their  apologetic  droop. 

"I'd  be  glad  to  have  you  come  inside,"  he  ventured. 


CHAPTER  HI 

A    PRIVATE   VIEW 

FROM  the  first  room,  a  kitchen  and  general  living 
room,  such  as  she  had  learned  to  know  in  the 
other  ranch  houses,  he  conducted  her  up  two 
steps  to  a  doorway,  from  which  he  pushed  aside  a  Nav- 
ajo  blanket  with  its  rude  coloring  of  black  and  red. 
There  was  disclosed  beyond  this  an  apartment  of  a  sort 
with  which  she  was  more  familiar,  a  spacious  studio 
with  its  large  window  giving  to  the  north.  In  the  clear 
light  her  eyes  ran  quickly  over  its  details:  the  chinked 
logs  that  made  its  walls,  the  huge  stone  fireplace  on 
one  side,  the  broad  couch  along  the  opposite  wall,  covered 
with  another  of  the  vivid  Navajo  weaves,  the  skins  of 
bear  and  lynx  and  cougar  on  the  stained  floor,  the  easel 
before  the  window,  a  canvas  in  place  on  it ;  the  branching 
antlers  over  the  fireplace,  contrived  into  a  gun  rack; 
a  tall,  roughly  made  cabinet,  its  single  shelf  littered 
with  half-squeezed  tubes  of  paint,  a  daubed  palette, 
and  a  red-glazed  jar  from  which  brushes  protruded. 
Above  the  couch  were  some  shelves  of  books,  and  between 
it  and  the  fireplace  was  a  table  strewn  with  papers, 
magazines,  a  drawing  board  with  a  sheet  of  paper  tacked 
to  it,  and  half  a  dozen  sharpened  pencils. 

He  indicated  the  couch.  "  It  will  be  a  good  thing  for 
you  to  rest  a  little,"  he  said.  She  seated  herself  with  a 
smile  of  assent.  He  rashly  began  to  arrange  the  pillows 
for  her,  but  left  off  in  a  sudden  consciousness  of  his 

20 


A  Private  View 


temerity,  withdrawing  a  few  paces  to  regard  her.  He 
was  still  apprehensive,  but  his  boy's  eyes  were  full  of 
delight,  amusement,  curiosity,  and,  more  than  all,  of 
a  wistfulness  like  that  of  a  dumb  creature.  He  stepped 
to  the  door  for  the  pitcher  of  water  and  glass  that  Ben 
now  brought. 

She  had  studied  him  coolly  as  he  spoke — the  negligent 
out-of-doors  carriage  of  the  figure,  not  without  a  kind  of 
free  animal  grace,  the  grace  of  a  trampling  horse  rather 
than  that  of  soft-going  panthers.  The  floor  boards 
reechoed  to  his  careless,  rattling  tread,  and  occasionally, 
his  attention  being  drawn  to  this  reverberation,  he  was 
at  great  pains  for  a  moment  to  go  on  tiptoe.  He  was 
well  set  up,  with  a  sufficient  length  of  thigh.  Mrs.  Laithe 
approved  of  this,  for,  in  her  opinion,  many  a  goodly  mas- 
culine torso  in  these  times  goes  for  nothing  because  of  a 
shortness  of  leg.  His  hair  was  a  lightish  brown  and  so 
straight  that  a  lock  was  prone  to  come  out  behind  and 
point  uncompromisingly  toward  distant  things.  This 
impropriety  he  wholly  disregarded,  whereas  the  more 
civilized  man  would  have  borne  the  fault  in  mind  and 
remembered  occasionally  to  apply  a  restrictive  hand. 
His  face  was  a  long,  browned  square,  with  gray  eyes,  so 
imbedded  under  the  brow  that  they  had  a  look  of  fierce- 
ness. His  lips  showed  only  a  narrow  line  of  color,  and 
trembled  constantly  with  smiles.  These  he  tried  to  re- 
strain from  time  to  time,  with  an  air  of  pinning  down 
the  corners  of  his  mouth. 

She  had  noted  so  much  while  he  poured  out  the  water, 
and  now  he  came  to  her,  walking  carefully  so  as  not  to 
thunder  with  his  boots. 

"You  must  have  been  frightened,"  he  said,  and  his 
eyes  sought  hers  with  a  young,  sorry  look. 

21 


Ewing's  Lady 

"Not  after  we  left  the  woods;  it  wasn't  funny  among 
those  trees." 

He  brightened.  "I'd  always  thought  women  don't 
like  to  look  funny." 

"They  don't,"  said  the  lady  incisively,  "no  more  than 
men  do." 

"But  you  can  laugh  at  yourself,"  he  insisted. 

"Can  you?"  She  meditated  a  swift  exposure  of  his 
own  absurdity  at  their  meetings  in  the  valley,  but  forbore 
and  spoke  instead  of  his  pictures. 

"You  must  show  me  your  work,"  she  said. 

For  a  moment  it  seemed  that  she  had  lost  all  she  had 
gained  with  him.  He  patently  meditated  a  flying  leap 
through  the  door  and  an  instant  vanishing  into  the 
nearest  thicket.  She  had  an  impulse  to  put  out  a  hand 
and  secure  him  by  the  coat.  But  he  held  his  ground, 
though  all  his  geniality  was  suddenly  veiled,  while  he 
vibrated  behind  the  curtain,  scheming  escape,  like  a 
child  harried  by  invading  grown  people  in  its  secret  play- 
house. 

She  looked  cunningly  away,  examining  a  rip  in  her 
glove. 

"I  tried  to  paint  a  little  myself  once,"  she  essayed 
craftily.  Nothing  came  of  it.  He  remained  in  ambush. 

"But  it  wasn't  in  me,"  she  continued,  and  was  con- 
scious that  he  at  least  took  a  breath. 

"You  see,  I  hadn't  anything  but  the  liking,"  she  went 
on,  "  and  so  I  had  the  sense  to  give  it  up.  Still,  I  learned 
enough  to  help  me  see  other  people's  work  better — and 
to  be  interested  in  pictures." 

"Did  anyone  try  to  teach  you?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  but  they  couldn't  make  me  paint;  they  could 
only  make  me  see." 

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"Perhaps  you  could  tell  me  some  things,"  he  admitted 
at  last,  "if  you've  tried."  He  paltered  a  little  longer. 
Then,  "Ben  Crider  says  this  is  the  best  thing  I've  ever 
done,"  and  he  quickly  took  a  canvas  from  against  the 
wall  and  placed  it  on  a  chair  before  her. 

She  considered  is  so  quietly  that  he  warmed  a  little, 
like  a  routed  animal  lulled  once  more  into  security  by 
the  stillness. 

"  Do  you  get  the  right  light?"  he  asked  anxiously. 

She  nodded,  and  managed  a  faint,  abstracted  smile, 
indicative  of  pleasure.  She  heard  him  emit  a  sigh  of 
returning  ease.  He  spoke  in  almost  his  former  confiding 
tone. 

"That's  our  lake,  you  know,  painted  in  the  late  after- 
noon. Ben  is  set  on  my  sending  it  down  to  the  Durango 
fair  next  month." 

It  was  the  lake,  indeed,  but,  alas!  an  elaborate,  a 
labored  parody  of  it.  The  dead  blue  water,  the  granite 
wall  evenly  gray  in  shadow,  garishly  pink  where  it 
caught  the  sun,  the  opaque  green  of  the  trees,  the  care- 
fully arranged  clouds  in  the  flat  blue  sky — all  smirked 
conscious  burlesque.  It  recalled  the  things  in  gilt 
frames  which  Mrs.  Laithe  remembered  to  have  seen  in 
front  of  "art  emporiums."  on  Fourteenth  Street,  tagged 
"Genuine  Oil  Painting,"  the  "$12.00"  carefully  crossed 
out  and  "$3.98"  written  despairingly  below  to  tempt 
the  alert  connoisseur. 

She  knew  the  artist's  eyes  were  upon  her  in  appeal  for 
praise.  She  drew  in  her  under  lip  and  narrowed  her 
eyes  as  one  in  the  throes  of  critical  deliberation. 

"Yes,  I  should  recognize  the  spot  at  once,"  she  dared 
to  say  at  last.  "How  well  you've  drawn  the  rock." 

"I  hoped  you'd  like  it.     I  don't  mind  telling  you  I 

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Ewing's  Lady 


put  in  a  lot  of  time  on  that  thing.  I  'carried  it  along' 
as  my  father  used  to  say.  I  don't  believe  I  could  better 
that.  And  here  are  some  others." 

He  displayed  them  without  further  urging,  his  shyness 
vanished  by  his  enthusiasm,  in  his  eye  a  patent  confu- 
sion of  pride  and  anxiety.  She  found  them  in  quality 
like  the  first.  In  one  the  valley  of  the  Wimmenuche 
from  the  east  bench  was  as  precisely  definite  as  a  topo- 
graphical map;  in  another  the  low-lying  range  of  hills 
to  the  south  had  lost  all  their  gracious  and  dignifying 
haze. 

"They  are  immensely  interesting,"  observed  his  critic 
with  animation,  "It  may  be" — she  searched  for  a  tem- 
pering phrase — "it  is  just  possible  there's  a  trick  of  color 
you  need  to  learn  yet.  You  know  color  is  so  difficult 
to  convict.  It's  shifty,  evasive,  impalpable.  I  dare  say 
that  lake  isn't  as  flatly  blue  as  you've  painted  it,  nor 
that  cliff  as  flatly  pink  in  sunlight.  And  those  hills— 
isn't  there  a  mistiness  that  softens  their  lines  and  gives 
one  a  sense  of  their  distance?  Color  is  so  difficult — 
so  tricky!" 

She  had  spoken  rapidly,  her  eyes  keeping  to  the  poor 
things  before  her.  Now  she  ventured  a  glance  at  the 
painter  and  met  a  puzzled  seriousness  in  his  look. 

"  You  may  be  right,"  he  assented  at  last.  "  Sometimes 
I've  felt  I  was  on  the  wrong  track.  I  see  what  you  mean. 
You  mean  you  could  reach  over  a  mile  and  pick  up  the 
ranch  house  at  Bar-;— that  it's  like  a  little  painted 
poll's  house;  and  you  mean  you  could  push  your  finger 
into  those  hills,  though  they're  meant  to  be  a  hundred 
miles  away.  Well,  it  serves  me  right,  I  guess.  My 
father  warned  me  about  color.  And  I  never  saw  any 
good  pictures  but  his,  and  that  was  years  ago.  I've 

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forgotten  how  they  ought  to  look.  He  sold  all  his 
when  I  was  young — all  but  one." 

"You've  done  well,  considering  that." 

"  He  said  I  must  learn  to  draw  first — really  to  draw — 
and  he  taught  me  to  do  that.  I  can  draw.  But  black 
and  white  is  so  dingy,  and  these  colors  are  always  nagging 
you,  daring  you  to  try  them.  If  I  could  only  learn  to  get 
real  air  between  me  and  those  hills.  I  wonder,  now, 
if  my  colors  seem  like  those  Navajo  blankets  to  you." 
He  flung  himself  away  from  the  canvases  like  an  offended 
horse. 

"Let  me  see  your  black-and-whites,"  she  suggested 
hastily. 

"Oh,  those!  They  don't  amount  to  much,  but  I'll 
show  you."  He  thrust  aside  the  canvases  and  opened 
a  portfolio  on  the  chair. 

She  saw  at  a  glance  that  he  had  been  right  when  he 
said  he  could  draw.  She  let  her  surprise  have  play  and 
expanded  in  the  pleasure  of  honest  praise.  She  had 
not  realized  how  her  former  disappointment  had  taken 
her  aback.  But  he  could  draw.  Here  were  true  lines 
and  true  modeling,  not  dead,  as  he  had  warned  her, 
but  quick  with  life,  portrayed  not  only  with  truth  but 
with  a  handling  all  his  own,  free  from  imitative  touches. 
He  had  achieved  difficult  feats  of  action,  of  foreshorten- 
ing, with  an  apparently  effortless  facility — the  duck  of 
a  horse's  head  to  avoid  the  thrown  rope;  the  poise  of  the 
man  who  had  cast  it ;  the  braced  tension  of  a  cow  pony 
holding  a  roped  and  thrown  steer  while  his  rider  dis- 
mounted ;  the  airy  grace  of  Red  Phinney  at  work  with 
a  stubborn  broncho,  coming  to  earth  on  his  stiff-legged 
mount  and  raking  its  side  from  shoulder  to  flank  with 
an  effective  spur.  There  was  humor  in  them,  the  real 
3  25 


Ewing's  Lady 

feeling  in  one  of  the  last.  Mrs.  kaithe  lingered  over 
this. 

"It's  Beulah  Pierce' s  wife  in  that  flower  garden  of  hers," 
the  artist  explained.  "  It  seems  kind  of  sad  when  she 
goes  out  there  alone  sometimes.  You  know  how  tired 
she  generally  is,  and  how  homesick  she's  been  for  twenty 
years  or  so— 'all  gaunted  up,'  as  Ben  says,  like  every 
ranchman's  wife — they  have  to  work  so  hard.  And  in 
the  house  she's  apt  to  be  peevish  and  scold  Beulah  and 
the  boys  like  she  despised  them.  But  when  she  goes  out 
into  that  garden — 

"Tell  me,"  said  his  listener,  after  waiting  discreetly 
a  moment. 

"Well,  she's  mighty  different.  She  stands  around 
mooning  at  the  hollyhocks  and  petunias  and  geraniums 
and  things,  the  flowers  that  grew  in  her  garden  back 
East,  and  I  reckon  she  kind  of  forgets  and  thinks  she's 
a  girl  back  home  again.  Her  face  gets  all  gentled  up. 
I've  watched  her  when  she  didn't  notice  me — she's 
looking  so  far  off — and  when  she  goes  into  the  house  again 
her  voice  is  queer,  and  she  forgets  to  rampage  till  Shane 
Riley  lets  the  stew  burn,  or  Beulah  tracks  mud  into 
the  front  room,  or  something.  I  tried  to  show  her  there, 
looking  soft,  just  that  way."  He  sounded  a  little 
apologetic  as  he  finished. 

"It's  delightful,"  she  insisted,  "and  they're  all  good— 
I  can't  tell  you  how  good.  You  must  do  more  of  them, 
and  " — she  paused  and  shot  him  a  careful  glance  to  deter- 
mine how  wary  it  behooved  her  to  be — "and  I  believe 
you  should  let  color  alone  for  awhile,  until  you've  had 
a  teacher  show  you  some  things.  You  must  learn  the 
trick." 

"  Oh,  I'd  try  to  learn  fast  enough,  if  I  had  the  chance." 
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His  eyes  lighted  with  a  kind  of  furtive  wistfulness, 
as  if  he  would  not  have  her  wholly  fathom  his  longing. 

"Of  course  you  could  learn.  I  believe  you  can  do 
something — something  fine." 

She  rose  from  the  couch  and  glanced  over  his  books, 
with  an  air  of  wishing  to  touch  other  matters  before  they 
dwelt  long  on  this.  She  noticed  with  some  surprise 
a  set  of  Meredith. 

"Do  you  read  these?"  she  asked,  taking  down  one 
of  the  volumes. 

There  was  an  instant  return  of  his  former  shyness, 
a  hint  of  the  child  and  the  invaded  playhouse.  But 
she  knew  what  to  do.  Without  further  remark  she 
calmly  lost  herself  in  "  Diana." 

"Those  books  were  my  father's,"  he  said  at  last,  with 
the  air  of  addressing  an  explanation  to  some  third  per- 
son. She  ignored  this,  not  even  glancing  at  him.  "  But 
I've  read  them,"  he  added,  still  as  if  to  another  person. 

At  last,  after  studying  her  face  a  bit,  he  ventured, 
"Have  you  read  them  all?"  He  spoke  low,  so  as  not  to 
interrupt  her  too  pointedly.  She  did  not  look  up,  but 
nodded,  with  a  smile  that  said  confidentially,  "Well, 
I  should  think  so!"  He  edged  nearer  then,  like  one 
who  would  be  glad,  if  pressed,  to  share  his  secrets. 

"I  was  sorry  when  I  reached  the  last  one,"  he  began. 
"It  was  another  world.  Oh,  he's  a  great  writer.  He 
writes  as  if  he  was  thinking  all  the  time  in  fireworks, 
and  he  makes  you  do  the  same  thing.  Every  page  or 
two  he  sets  off  a  bunch  of  firecrackers  in  your  mind  that 
you  didn't  know  you  had  there.  But  he  writes  as  if 
he  didn't  care  whether  anybody  understood  him  or  not. 
It's  a  blind  trail,  lots  of  the  way,  and  on  some  pages  I 
just  bog  down." 

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Ewing's  Lady 

She  smiled  sympathetically.  "Many  of  us  have  that 
trouble  with  him."  She  put  "Diana"  back  on  the  shelf 
and  held  up  the  poems  of  Robert  Browning. 

"And  this?" 

"Oh,  do  you  read  that,  too?"  he  counterquestioned 
with  sparkling  curiosity.  She  could  see  that  he  was 
enlivened  beyond  his  self -consciousness  for  the  moment. 
"Well,  I  do,  too,  in  spots.  He's  pretty  good  in  spots. 
But  other  times  he's  choppy  and  talky  and  has  a  hard 
time  getting  into  the  saddle.  Why,  sometimes  when 
Ben  Crider  is  talking  to  himself,  it  would  sound  just  like 
Browning,  if  you  broke  it  up  into  poetry  lengths  and 
gave  it  a  good  title." 

"  And  this  you  like,  too?"  She  was  opening  a  volume 
of  Whitman. 

"Sure!"  he  rang  out.  "Don't  you?  There's  the 
man."  He  began  walking  about  with  a  fine  smile  that 
was  almost  a  friendly  grin.  She  felt  suddenly  sure  that 
he  had  never  talked  about  the  books  before,  and  that 
it  was  a  kind  of  feast  day  for  him. 

"Yes,"  he  continued  easily;  "when  I  get  to  feeling 
too  much  alone  up  here  I  pretend  I  see  him  striding  in 
off  the  trail,  his  head  up,  sniffing  the  air,  his  eyes  just 
eating  these  big  hills,  and  he'd  march  right  in  and  sit 
down.  Only  I  can't  ever  think  of  what  we'd  say.  I 
reckon  we'd  sit  here  without  a  word.  He  must  have 
had  wonderful  eyes.  He's  good  in  winters  when  you're 
holed  up  here  in  the  snow  and  get  on  edge  with  nothing 
to  do  for  five  or  six  months  but  feed  the  stock  and  keep 
a  water  hole  open.  Sometimes  I  wonder  if  Ben  and  I 
won't  come  out  crazy  in  the  spring,  and  then  I  read  old 
Whitman  and  he  makes  me  feel  all  easy-like  and  sure  of 
myself." 

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He  paused  again,  but  she  only  waited. 

"I  had  a  funny  thought  last  winter,"  he  pursued. 
"  It  seemed  to  me  that  if  people  turn  into  other  things 
when  they  die — the  way  some  folks  believe,  you  know — 
that  Whitman  must  have  become  a  whole  world  when 
he  died,  whirling  away  somewhere  off  in  space;  a  fine, 
big,  fresh  world,  with  mountains  and  valleys  and  lakes, 
with  big  rivers  and  little  ones,  and  forests  and  plains  and 
people,  good  people  and  bad  people,  he  just  liked  all  sorts 
— it  didn't  seem  to  make  much  difference  to  him  what 
they  were,  so  they  were  people — and  he'd  carry  them 
all  on  his  back  and  breathe  in  and  out  and  feel  great." 

He  laughed  as  if  the  idea  still  delighted  him,  and  she 
laughed  with  him. 

"I'd  like  to  have  told  him  that,"  he  continued,  almost 
meditatively.  "  But  I'll  bet  he  often  thought  of  it  him- 
self. I  guess  he  wouldn't  be  satisfied  with  anything 
less  than  that." 

When  he  stopped  they  stood  a  moment  smiling  at 
each  other.  Then  she  went  back  to  the  couch  with  rather 
a  businesslike  air. 

"How  old  are  you?"  she  asked. 

"I'm  twenty-four.     How  old  are  you?" 

She  smiled,  quite  disarmed  by  the  artlessness  of  this 
brutality. 

"I  am  twenty-seven." 

"That's  pretty  old,  isn't  it?"  he  commented,  gravely. 
"I  shouldn't  have  said  you  were  older  than  I  am. 
Some  ways  you  look  younger.  And  what  a  lot  you  must 
have  seen  out  yonder!" 

"You  should  go  there  yourself,  to  work,  to  study." 
She  felt  that  he  was  curiously  watching  her  lips  as  she 
spoke  rather  than  listening  to  her. 

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Ewing's  Lady 

"  Now  I  see  it's  only  your  profile  that's  sad,"  he  began 
in  the  same  detached,  absent  way  he  had  spoken  of  the 
books,  the  way  of  one  talking  in  solitude.  "Your  full 
face  isn't  sad;  it's  full  of  joy;  but  there's  a  droop  to  the 
profile.  Here — I'll  show  you."  He  took  a  sketch-book 
from  the  table. 

"I'll  show  you  this,  now  we're  such  good  friends.  I 
could  only  draw  the  profile  because — well,  that  was 
the  only  thing  I  could  look  at  much." 

She  looked  and  saw  herself  on  three  pages  of  the  book, 
quick  little  drawings,  all  of  the  side  face. 

"I  didn't  dream  you  had  seen  me  enough,"  she  said. 
"And  you  have  everything  from  cap  to  boots,  and 

Cooney " 

"I  knew  Cooney,  and  I've — well — I've  watched  you 
some  when  you  didn't  know." 

"Certainly  you  never  watched  me  when  I  did  know," 
she  retorted. 

"I  should  think  not!"  He  laughed  uneasily.  "But 
you  see  the  sadness  there.  I  tried  to  locate  it,  but  I 
couldn't.  I  only  knew  it  was  there  because  I  found  it  in 
the  sketches  when  they  were  done.  I  think  I  caught 
the  figure  pretty  well  in  that  one.  Stand  that  way 
now,  won't  you?" 
She  rose  graciously. 

"Here's  your  quirt,  and  catch  your  skirts  the  way 
you've  done  there— that's  it.  Yes,  I  got  that  long  line 
down  from  the  shoulder.  It's  a  fine  line.  You  are 
beautiful,"  he  continued  critically.  "I  like  the  way 
your  neck  goes  up  from  your  shoulders,  and  your  head 
has  a  perky  kind  of  a  tilt,  as  if  you  wouldn't  be  easy 
to  bluff." 

She  smiled,  meditating  some  jocose  retort,  but  he  still 
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surveyed  her  impersonally,  not  seeing  the  smile.  She 
dropped  to  the  couch  rather  quickly. 

"Let  us  talk  about  you,"  she  urged.  But  he  did  not 
hear. 

"  Your  face,  though — that's  the  fine  thing —  "  He  was 
scanning  it  with  narrowed  eyes.  But  a  protesting 
movement  of  hers  restored  him  to  his  normal  embarrass- 
ment. He  writhed  in  uncomfortable  apology  before 
her.  "I'd  'most  forgot  you  were  really  here,"  he  ex- 
plained. "  I've  seen  you  that  way  so  often  when  you 
weren't  here.  There  now — I  see  that  sadness;  it's  in 
the  upper  lip.  It  showed  even  when  you  laughed  then." 

"Really,  this  must  stop,"  she  broke  in.  "People 
don't  talk  this  way." 

"Don't  they?  Why  don't  they?  I'm  sorry — but 
all  that  interested  me."  The  wave  of  his  hand  indicated 
the  fluent  grace  of  the  lady  impartially  from  head  to 
foot. 

"Of  course,"  he  added,  "I  knew  there  must  be  people 
like  you,  out  there,  but  I  never  dreamed  I'd  have  one 
of  them  close  enough  to  look  at — let  alone  get  friendly 
with.  I  hope  you  won't  hold  it  against  me." 


CHAPTER  IV 

A   PORTRAIT 

THOUGH  she  had  made  him  tingle  with  an  im- 
pulse to  flee  from  her,  he  was  at  the  edge  of 
the  east  bench  early  the  next  afternoon.  He 
might  see  her  from  a  distance.  If  she  came  close 
upon  him — well,  it  was  worth  risking;  he  had  a  good 
horse.  Her  eyes  were  the  best  of  her  he  thought,  big 
gray  things  under  black  brows,  with  a  dark  ring,  well 
defined,  about  the  iris.  He  had  seen  no  such  eyes  before. 
And  how  they  lighted  her  face  when  she  spoke.  Her 
face  needed  lighting,  he  thought.  It  was  pale  under 
the  dark  hair — her  hair  stopped  short  of  being  black, 
and  was  lusterless — with  only  a  bit  of  scared  pink  in  her 
cheeks,  after  that  ride  of  the  day  before.  He  thought 
of  her  hands,  too.  They  were  the  right  hands  for  her, 
long,  slender,  and  strong,  he  did  not  doubt,  under  a 
tricky  look  of  being  delicate.  It  was  not  possible  that 
they  could  ever  talk  together  again  so  easily.  He  could 
not  make  that  seem  true,  but  he  could  look  at  her.  He 
had  hoped  she  would  promise  to  come  again,  but  they 
had  parted  abruptly  the  afternoon  before.  Riding  back 
with  her,  as  they  breasted  the  last  slope  leading  to  the 
ranch,  he  had  rejoiced  boldly  at  the  chance  that  had  led 
her  up  the  lake  trail  that  morning.  Then  Beulah  Pierce 
had  hailed  them  from  his  station  at  the  bars,  hailed  them 
in  a  voice  built  to  admirable  carrying  power  by  many 

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A  Portrait 

cattle  drives.  His  speech  began,  "  Didn't  I  tell  you  where 
that  upper  trail  would " 

Whereupon  the  lady  turned  to  dismiss  her  escort 
rather  curtly. 

"Thank  you  for  riding  back  with  me.  I  shall  not 
trouble  you  any  further."  And  he,  staring  suddenly 
at  her  with  the  wild  deer's  eyes  again,  had  fled  over  the 
back  trail. 

He  thought  if  there  had  been  more  time  she  might 
have  said,  "  I  will  come  again  soon — perhaps  to-mor- 
row." He  liked  to  think  she  might  have  said  that,  but 
he  could  not  give  it  much  reality. 

He  sprawled  easily  in  the  saddle,  leaning  his  crossed 
arms  on  the  pommel  and  gazing  out  over  the  sun-shot 
valley  to  the  group  of  buildings  and  corrals  at  Bar-y. 
At  least  she  rode  somewhere  every  afternoon,  and  he 
would  see  her  leave.  If  she  turned  down  the  valley 
road  or  up  the  canon — well,  that  emergency  could  be 
met.  He  thought  of  speeches  to  make  it  plain  that 
he  had  not  followed  her,  daring  to  approach  her  in  his 
mind,  but  knowing  well  that  he  would  probably  hide  at 
sight  of  her. 

A  half  hour  he  waited  so,  beholding  visions  of  their 
accidental  meeting.  Then  his  pulses  raced.  He  saw 
the  stocky-barreled  Cooney  led  from  the  corral  to  the 
front  of  the  house  by  Red  Phinney.  He  could  almost 
discern  the  Sabbath  finery  of  Red  across  that  crystal 
mile — for  this  was  the  breathing  day  of  the  week,  when 
faces  were  rasped  cruelly  by  indifferent  razors,  and  fine 
rainment  was  donned,  black  trousers  and  gay,  clean 
shirts  and  neckerchiefs  of  flaming  silk. 

He  could  not  see  her  mount.  The  ranch  house  hid 
that  spectacle.  But  she  rode  into  view  presently,  putting 

33 


Ewing's  Lady 

Cooney  first  to  his  little  fox  trot  and  then  to  a  lope,  as 
the  road  wound  among  the  willows. 

He  straightened  in  the  saddle  as  she  reached  the  creek. 
He  was  eager  to  retreat,  yet  feared  to  have  his  cowardice 
detected.  And  when  Cooney  halted  midway  of  the  stream, 
pawing  its  rocky  bed  and  making  a  pretense  of  thirst, 
the  woman  looked  up  and  saw  her  watcher  on  the  trail. 
She  waved  the  gauntleted  hand  that  held  her  quirt, 
and  he  found  himself  holding  his  hat  in  his  hand  with 
an  affectation  of  ease.  Then  each  laughed,  and,  though 
neither  could  hear  the  other,  it  was  as  if  they  had  laughed 
together  in  some  little  flurry  of  understanding.  He 
could  still  pretend  to  have  happened  there  at  that  mo- 
ment, he  reflected.  And  this  brought  him  courage  as  he 
saw  her  give  Cooney  his  way  where  the  trail  branched. 
When  the  little  horse  had  carried  her  to  the  summit  and 
stood  in  panting  gratitude,  the  waiting  youth  evolved 
a  splendid  plan  for  hiding  his  fright.  He  dismounted 
and  forced  himself  to  go  coolly  and  take  her  hand. 
Perhaps  it  was  as  well  that  he  had  not  trusted  himself 
to  remain  in  the  saddle  at  that  first  moment.  But 
when  the  thing  was  really  over  he  no  longer  made  a 
secret  of  his  delight  at  her  coming.  His  first  anxious 
look  at  her  face  had  shown  him  the  cordial  friendliness 
of  the  preceding  day.  She  was  amused  by  him,  he  could 
see  that,  and  did  not  resent  it;  but  she  was  kind,  and  in 
his  joy  at  this  he  babbled,  at  first,  with  little  coherence. 

"  I  rode  right  over  here  to  make  sure  I  would  see  you," 
he  began,  "and  then  if  you  rode  down  the  valley.,  or  up,  I 
was  going  to  loaf  along  and  find  you  by  accident,  and 
pretend  I  was  hunting  a  colt.  I  was  going  to  be  afraid 
the  mountain  lions  had  got  it."  He  laughed  immoder- 
ately at  this  joke.  "  And  while  I  waited  for  you  I  kept 

34 


A  Portrait 

trying  to  think  how  fine  it  would  have  sounded  last 
night  if  you  had  said,  'I  think  I  shall  go  over  and  look 
at  your  place  again  to-morrow.'  I  couldn't  make  your 
voice  sound  true,  though.  It's  a  good  thing  we  needn't 
try  to  paint  voices." 

They  were  riding  together  over  the  first  stretch  of 
meadow.  It  seemed  to  have  been  agreed  without  words 
that  they  should  ride  to  the  lake  cabin. 

"To  paint  voices?"  she  queried. 

"Voices,  yes;  how  could  yours  be  painted?  It 
couldn't.  You'll  see  that.  I  thought  of  a  jumble  of 
things — wine  and  velvet,  for  instance;  some  kind  of 
rich,  golden  wine  and  purple  velvet,  and  then,  warm 
flickers  of  light  in  a  darkened  room,  and  a  big  bronze  bell 
struck  with  something  soft  that  would  muffle  it  and 
yet  make  everything  about  it  tremble.  You  see,  don't 
you?"  he  concluded  with  a  questioning  look  of  deep 
seriousness. 

His  own  voice  was  low  and  eager,  with  its  undernote 
of  wistfulness.  Already  he  had  renewed  upon  her  that 
companionable  charm  which  she  had  felt  the  day  before, 
a  charm  compounded  of  half-shy  directness,  of  flashes 
of  self-forgetfulness,  of  quick-trusting  comradeship. 
She  rejected  a  cant  phrase  of  humorous  disclaimer  that 
habit  brought  to  her  lips.  It  would  puzzle  or  affront 
his  forthrightness. 

"Very  well,  we'll  agree  that  my  voice  can't  be  painted," 
she  said  at  last.  "So  let  us  talk  of  you." 

"  I  guess  I  should  like  that  pretty  well,"  he  answered 
after  a  moment's  pondering.  "1  don't  believe  I've 
ever  talked  much;  but  now  I  feel  as  if  I  could  tire  you 
out,  talking  as  we  did  yesterday.  Queer,  wasn't  it?" 

He  fell  silent,  however,  when  the  trail  narrowed  to 

35 


Ewing's  Lady 

climb  the  long  ridge,  as  if  the  acknowledgment  of  his 
desire  to  speak  had  somehow  quenched  it.  She  fell 
in  ahead,  half  turning  in  her  saddle  to  address  him  from 
time  to  time,  but  he  would  talk  only  about  things  of  the 
moment.  In  a  marshy  spot  at  the  edge  of  the  meadow 
he  pointed  out  a  bear  wallow,  and  farther  on  a  deer  lick. 
"It's  a  sulphur  spring,"  he  exclaimed,  "and  deer  come 
from  miles  around  to  drink  there." 

"Do  you  shoot  them?"  she  asked. 

"We  always  have  fresh  meat  when  we  need.  Ben 
Crider  says  he  won't  let  a  deer  come  up  and  bite  him 
without  trying  to  defend  himself." 

"It's  like  murder,  isn't  it?" 

"Well,  I  never  murdered  anyone  myself,  but  I  hit 
the  first  deer  I  ever  shot  at,  and  I  felt  as  if  I'd  lain  in 
wait  at  a  street  corner  and  killed  a  schoolboy  on  his 
way  home.  But  I  missed  the  next  three  or  four,  and 
that  made  me  blood-thirsty.  I  guess  if  you  carried 
that  feeling  back  far  enough  a  man  could  go  out  and 
shoot  his  little  sister  if  he'd  had  to  still-hunt  her  over 
rough  ground  all  day,  and  especially  if  he'd  missed 
two  or  three  cousins  or  an  uncle  in  the  meantime.  I 
think  that  would  raise  the  savage  in  him  enough." 

They  were  skirting  the  lake  now,  a  glinting  oval  of 
sapphire  in  its  setting  of  granite.  Beyond  this  they  rode 
through  the  thinned  timber — where  Cooney  was  dis- 
suaded, not  without  effort,  from  pursuing  his  ancient 
charge,  and  emerged  into  the  glare  of  the  clearing. 

As  they  dismounted  at  the  door  of  the  cabin  a  melan- 
choly of  minor  chords  from  a  guitar  came  to  their  ears, 
and  a  voice,  nasal,  but  vibrant  with  emotion,  sang  the 
final  couplet  of  what  had  too  plainly  been  a  ballad  of 
pathos : 

36 


A  Portrait 

"  While  they  were  honeymooning  in  a  mansion  on  the  hill, 
Kind  friends  were  laying  Nellie  out  behind  the  mill." 

"  That's  one  of  Ben's  best  songs,"  said  Ewing,  with  so 
genuine  a  gravity  that  he  stifled  quite  another  emotion 
in  the  lady  as  she  caught  his  look. 

"Indeed!  I  must  hear  him  sing  more,"  she  managed 
with  some  difficulty. 

The  sorrowful  one  arose  as  they  entered,  hastily 
thrusting  aside  his  guitar  as  might  an  assassin  have  cast 
away  his  weapon.  His  face  was  shaven  to  a  bitter  degree ; 
in  spots  it  was  scarified.  But  the  drooping  lines  of  woe 
unutterable  were  still  there  in  opposition  to  his  Sabbath 
finery — a  spreading  blue-satin  cravat,  lighted  by  a 
stone  of  impressive  bulk,  elegant  black  trousers,  and 
suspenders  of  red  silk  embroidered  with  pansies  and  a 
running  vine  of  green.  He  greeted  the  visitor  as  one 
who  would  say,  "Yes,  it's  a  sad  affair — wholly  unex- 
pected," and,  cocking  an  eye  of  long-suffering  negation 
on  Ewing,  he  went  out  to  the  horses. 

As  they  entered  the  studio  Mrs.  Laithe  saw  that  the 
easel  had  been  wheeled  into  the  light  from  the  big  win- 
dow and  that  a  woman's  portrait  had  been  placed  upon 
it.  Had  Ewing  looked  at  her  on  the  instant  he  might 
have  detected  that  her  face  seemed  to  ripple  under  some 
wind  of  emotion.  But  his  own  eyes  had  been  on  the 
portrait. 

"That's  my  mother,"  he  said,  unconsciously  hushing 
his  voice. 

"I  should  have  known  it,"  she  answered,  with  a  kind 
of  spurious  animation.  "  The  face  is  so  much  like  yours. 
It  is  a  face  one  seems  to  have  known  before,  one  of  those 
elusive  resemblances  that  haunt  the  mind.  It  is  well 
done."  She  ended  the  speech  glibly  enough. 

37 


Ewing's  Lady 

"She  was  beautiful.  My  father  did  it.  He  had  that 
trick  of  color,  as  you  call  it,  or  he  could  never  have 
painted  her.  She  was  so  slight,  but  she  had  color.  And 
she  was  quick  and  fiery.  I  used  to  see  her  rage  when  I 
was  very  small.  I  believed  there  were  coals  in  her  eyes, 
and  that  something  blew  on  them  inside  to  make  them 
blaze.  I  wouldn't  know  what  it  was  about,  only  that  it 
wasn't  us  she  raged  at — not  my  father  or  me.  I  could 
go  up  and  catch  her  hand  even  when  she  frightened  me. 
And  sometimes,  after  a  while,  my  father  would  get  ex- 
cited, too.  He  was  slower  to  take  fire,  but  he  burned 
longer.  And  at  last  she  would  become  afraid  and  grow 
quiet  herself  and  try  to  soothe  him.  I  never  could  tell 
what  they  were  at  war  with." 

They  looked  in  silence  at  the  vivid  young  face  on  the 
canvas,  a  thin,  daring,  eager  face,  a  face  of  delicate  fea- 
tures, but  strong  in  a  perfect  balance.  The  eyes  were 
darkly  alive. 

"You  were  young  when  she  died?"  the  woman  asked 
at  last. 

"Too  young  to  understand.  I  was  eight,  I  think. 
There  was  a  lot  I  shall  never  understand.  Sometimes 
my  father  would  tell  me  about  their  life  here  in  the 
West,  but  never  of  the  time  before  they  came  here.  It 
always  seemed  to  me  that  either  he  or  she  had  quarreled 
with  their  people.  They  were  poor  when  they  came 
here.  We  lived  in  Leadville  when  I  first  remember. 
My  mother  sang  in  a  church  choir  and  made  a  little  money 
and  nights — you'll  think  this  queer — my  father  played 
a  piano  in  a  dance  hall.  They  had  to  live.  Days,  he 
painted.  He  had  studied  abroad  in  Paris  and  Munich, 
but  he  wasn't  selling  his  pictures  then.  It  took  him 
years  to  do  much  of  that.  Sometimes  they  were  hungry, 

38 


A  Portrait 

though  I  didn't  know  it."  He  paused,  overwhelmed 
by  a  sudden  realization  that  he  was  talking  much. 

"Tell  me  more,"  she  said  very  quietly.  "I  wish  to 
hear  the  rest." 

"  Well,  at  the  last  my  mother  was  in  bed  a  long  time, 
and  my  father  worked  hard  to  get  things  for  her,  things 
she  must  have.  But  one  night  she  died — it  was  a  cold 
night  in  winter.  He  and  I  were  alone  with  her.  I'll 
not  soon  forget  that.  I  sat  up  on  the  cot  where  I  slept 
and  saw  my  father  sitting  on  the  bed  looking  down  at 
my  mother.  They  were  both  still,  and  he  wouldn't 
answer  or  turn  his  head  when  I  spoke.  Then  I  cried, 
for  it  was  cold  in  the  little  cabin  and  my  father's  still- 
ness scared  me.  But  I  don't  think  he  heard  me  crying. 
He  kept  looking  down  at  my  mother's  face,  even  when 
I  called  to  him  as  loud  as  I  could.  Then  I  was  afraid  to 
see  him  that  way  any  longer,  so  I  pulled  the  blankets  over 
my  head  and  I  must  have  cried  myself  to  sleep. 

"He  was  sitting  the  same  way  when  I  woke  in  the 
morning,  still  looking  at  my  mother's  face.  Even 
when  the  people  came  to  take  her  away  he  kept  silent — 
and  while  they  put  her  in  the  ground  in  a  great,  snowy 
field  with  little  short  waves  all  over  it.  And  when  we 
were  back  in  the  cabin  not  a  word  could  I  get  from  him, 
nor  a  look.  He  just  sat  on  the  bed  again,  looking  at  her 
pillow. 

"  In  the  evening  some  one  brought  a  letter.  I  lighted 
a  candle  and  took  this  letter  to  him,  crowding  it  into 
his  hand.  I  wanted  him  to  notice  me.  I  saw  him 
study  the  envelope,  then  tear  it  open  and  look  at  a 
little  slip  of  green  paper  that  fell  out.  It  was  money, 
you  understand,  for  pictures  he  had  sent  to  New  York. 
I  knew  this  at  once.  I'd  heard  them  talk  of  its  com- 

39 


Swing's  Lady 

ing  and  of  wonderful  things  they'd  do  with  it  when  it 
did  come.  I  was  glad  in  an  instant,  for  I  thought  that 
now  we  could  get  my  mother  back  out  of  the  ground.  I 
was  sure  we  could  when  he  held  the  green  slip  close 
to  the  candle  and  began  to  laugh.  It  wasn't  the  way 
he  usually  laughed,  it  was  louder  and  longer,  but  it 
was  the  first  sound  I'd  heard  from  him,  and  it  made 
me  happy.  I  began  to  laugh  myself  as  loud  as  I  could, 
and  danced  before  him,  and  his  laugh  went  still  higher 
at  that.  I  ran  for  my  jacket  and  mittens  and  cap. 
I  wanted  him  to  stop  laughing  and  hurry  along.  I 
pulled  his  arm  and  he  stopped  laughing  and  looked 
down  at  me.  I  shouted  'Hurry — let's  hurry  and  bring 
her  back — let  me  carry  the  money!'  He  caught  my 
shoulder  and  looked  so  astonished,  then  he  burst  into 
that  loud  laugh  again,  after  he'd  made  me  say  it  over. 
I  ran  for  his  overcoat,  too,  but  when  I  came  with  it  I  saw 
he  wasn't  laughing  at  all.  He  was  crying,  and  it  was  so 
much  like  his  laugh  that  I  hadn't  noticed  the  change." 

He  had  kept  his  eyes  on  the  portrait  while  he  spoke. 
He  stopped  abruptly  now,  turning  to  the  listening  wo- 
man, searching  her  face  with  new  signs  of  confusion. 

"I — I  didn't  know  I  was  telling  you  all  that." 

She  did  not  answer  at  once. 

"And  you  came  here  after  that?"  she  said  at  last. 

"Yes;  my  father  found  this  place.  He  wanted  to  be 
alone.  I  think  he  began  to  die  when  my  mother  went. 
He  couldn't  live  without  her.  He  taught  me  what 
he  could,  about  books  and  pictures,  but  I  couldn't 
have  been  much  to  him.  I  think  it  hurt  him  that  I 
looked  like  her — he  said  I  looked  like  her.  He  worked 
on  that  portrait  to  the  very  last,  even  oa  the  morning 
of  the  day  he  died." 

40 


A  Portrait 

"What  was  your  father's  name?" 

"Gilbert  Denham  Ewing.     I  was  named  for  him." 

"And  your  mother's  name  before  marriage  was- 


I'm  ashamed  that  I  never  knew.  It  must  have 
been  spoken  often,  but  I  was  so  young;  it  never  stayed 
in  my  mind.  And  a  little  while  before  he  died  my 
father  burned  all  his  letters  and  papers.  I've  wondered 
about  their  life  long  ago  before  I  came,  but  I  think 
my  father  meant  me  not  to  know.  He  had  some 
reason." 

"  I  am  glad  you  have  told  me  all  you  did  know," 
she  said. 

"But  you  have  made  me  glad,"  he  assured  her, 
returning  to  his  livelier  manner. 

"Your  mother's  first  name" — she  asked — "what  did 
your  father  call  her?" 

"Oh,  that— Katharine.     He  called  her  Kitty." 

"Kitty!"  She  repeated  it  after  him,  softly,  as  if 
she  spoke  it  in  compassion  to  the  portrait. 

"But  see,"  he  continued,  "it's  late.  Stay  and  eat 
with  us  and  I'll  take  you  back  by  moonlight.  I've 
ordered  a  fine,  big,  silver  moon  to  be  set  up  in  the  sky 
at  seven,  and  Ben  is  already  getting  supper." 

He  pulled  aside  the  blanket  portiere,  and  through 
the  doorway  she  could  see  the  saturnine  one — a  man 
fashioned  for  tragedies,  for  deeds  of  desperate  hazard — 
incongruously  busied  with  a  pan  of  soda  biscuits  and 
a  hissing  broiler. 

When  they  rode  back  to  Bar- 7  the  hills  were  struck 
to  silver  by  the  moon.  They  were  companionably 
silent  for  most  of  the  ride,  though  the  youth  from  time 
to  time,  when  the  trail  narrowed  to  put  him  in  the 
rear,  crooned  stray  bits  of  a  song  with  which  Ben  Crider 
4  41 


Ewing's  Lady 


had  favored  them  while  he  prepared  the  evening  meal. 
The  lines  Mrs  Laithe  remembered  were: 

"Take  back  your  gold,  for  gold  it  cannot  buy  me; 
Make  me  your  wife,  'tis  all  I  ask  of  you." 

When  they  parted  she  said,  "  You  must  think  about 
leaving  here.  It's  time  you  rode  out  into  the  world. 
I  think  my  brother  will  be  back  from  his  cattle-driving 
trip  to-morrow,  and  I  mean  to  bring  him  to  see  your 
pictures  very  soon.  Perhaps  he  will  suggest  something 
for  you." 

"This  moonlight  does  such  wonderful  things  to  your 
face,"  he  remarked. 

"Good  night!     I'm  sorry  you  have  so  far  to  go." 

"It  isn't  far  enough,"  he  answered,  still  searching 
her  face.  "Not  half  far  enough — I  have  so  much 
thinking — so  much  thinking  to  do." 


42 


CHAPTER  V 

INTO   THE   PAST   AND   OUT 

IT  was  not  without  concern  that  Mrs.  Laithe  awaited 
the  return  of  her  brother  the  following  day.  The 
cattle  drive  that  had  beguiled  him  from  habits 
of  extreme  and  enforced  precision  had  occupied  a 
fortnight,  and  she  understood  the  life  to  be  sorely  trying 
to  any  but  the  rugged.  Earnestly  had  she  sought  to 
dissuade  him  from  the  adventure,  for  insomnia  had 
long  beset  him,  and  dyspepsia  marked  him  for  its  play- 
thing. Eloquently  exposed  to  him  had  been  the  folly 
of  hoping  for  sleep  on  stony  ground  after  vainly  wooing 
it  in  the  softest  of  beds  with  an  air  pillow  inflated  to 
the  nice  degree  of  resiliency.  And  the  unsuitability 
of  camp  fare  to  a  man  who  had  long  been  sustained  by 
an  invalid's  diet  had  been  shrewdly  set  forth.  None 
the  less  he  had  persisted,  caught  in  the  frenzy  of  des- 
peration that  sometimes  overwhelms  even  the  practiced 
dyspeptic. 

"  It  can't  be  worse,  Sis,"  he  had  tragically  assured  her 
at  parting.  "If  I've  got  to  writhe  out  my  days,  why, 
I  shall  writhe  like  a  gentleman,  that's  all.  I  can  at 
least  chuck  those  baby  foods  and  perish  with  some 
dignity." 

"But  you're  not  leaving  your  medicines,  those  drops 
and  things?"  she  had  asked,  in  real  alarm. 

"Every  infernal  drop.  I've  struck  all  along  the 
line — not  another  morsel  of  disinfected  zwieback  nor 

43 


Swing's  Lady 

sanitary  breakfast  food  nor  hygienic  prunes  nor  gluten- 
ized  near-food — not  even  one  pepsin  tablet.  It's  come 
to  where  I'd  sooner  have  no  stomach  at  all  than  be 
bullied  night  and  day  by  one." 

With  which  splendid  defiance  he  had  ridden  desper- 
ately off,  a  steely  flash  in  his  tired  gray  eyes  and  a  bit 
of  fevered  color  glowing  in  his  sallow  cheeks. 

When  Mrs.  Pierce  loudly  announced  the  return  of 
the  men  early  in  the  afternoon,  therefore,  the  invalid's 
sister  was  ready  to  be  harrowed.  There  would  be 
bitter  agonies  to  relate — chiefly  stomachic.  She  had 
heroically  resolved,  moreover,  not  immediately  to 
flaw  the  surface  of  her  sympathy  with  any  gusty  "I 
told  you  so!"  That  was  a  privilege  sacred  unto  her, 
and  not  to  be  foregone;  but  she  would  defer  its  satis- 
faction until  the  pangs  of  confession  had  been  suffered ; 
until  the  rash  one  should  achieve  a  mood  receptive  to 
counsel. 

At  the  call  of  Mrs.  Pierce  she  ran  down  the  flower- 
bordered  walk  to  join  that  lady  at  the  gate,  and  there 
they  watched  the  cavalcade  as  it  jolted  down  the  lacets 
of  the  mesa  trail — four  horsemen  in  single  file,  two 
laden  pack  animals,  another  horseman  in  the  rear. 
The  returning  invalid  was  equal,  then,  to  sitting  a 
horse.  The  far-focused  eyes  of  Mrs.  Pierce  were  the 
first  to  identify  him.  As  the  line  advanced  through 
the  willow  growth  that  fringed  the  creek  she  said, 
pointing,  "There's  Mr.  Bartell — he's  in  the  lead." 

"But  Clarence  doesn't  smoke;  the  doctors  won't 
let  him,"  his  sister  interposed,  for  she  could  distinguish 
a  pipe  in  the  mouth  of  the  foremost  horseman.  "And, 
anyway,  it  couldn't  be  Clarence;  it's  too — "  On  the 
point  of  saying  "too  disreputable,"  she  reflected  that 

44 


Into  the  Past  and  Out 


the  person  in  front  looked  quite  like  the  run  of  Mrs. 
Pierce's  nearest  friends  and  might,  indeed,  be  of  her 
own  household. 

"  It's  sure  your  brother,  though,"  insisted  Mrs. 
Pierce,  as  the  riders  broke  into  a  lope  over  the  level, 
"and  he  don't  look  quite  as — "  Mrs.  Pierce  forbore 
tactfully  in  her  turn.  She  had  meant  to  say  "  dandified." 

"And  I  tell  you,  Mis'  Laithe,  he  does  look  husky, 
too.  Not  no  ways  so  squammish  as  when  he  started. 
My  suz!  Here  we've  et  dinner  and  they'll  be  hungry 
as  bears.  I  must  run  in  and  set  back  something." 

The  other  men  turned  with  the  packhorses  off  toward 
the  corrals,  but  Bartell  came  on  at  a  stiff  gallop  to 
where  his  sister  waited.  When  he  had  pulled  his  horse 
up  before  her  with  perilous  but  showy  abruptness,  he 
raised  himself  in  the  saddle,  swung  his  hat,  and  poured 
into  the  still  air  of  the  valley  a  long,  high  yell  of  such 
volume  that  his  sister  stepped  hastily  within  the  gate 
again.  She  had  heard  the  like  of  that  yell  as  they 
passed  through  Pagosa  Springs,  rendered  by  a  cowboy 
in  the  acute  stage  of  alcoholic  dementia. 

"Why,  Clarence,  dear!"  she  gasped,  fearing  the 
worst.  But  he  hurriedly  dismounted  and  came,  steadily 
enough,  to  kiss  her.  She  submitted  doubtfully  to  this, 
and  immediately  held  him  off  for  inspection.  He 
was  frankly  disreputable.  The  flannel  shirt  and  cor- 
duroy trousers  were  torn,  bedraggled,  gray  with  the 
dust  of  the  trail;  his  boots  were  past  redemption,  his 
hat  a  reproach ;  his  face  a  bronzed  and  hairy  caricature ; 
and  he  reeked  of  the  most  malignant  tobacco  Mrs.  Laithe 
had  ever  encountered.  Only  the  gold-rimmed  spectacles, 
the  nearsighted,  peering  gray  eyes,  and  a  narrow  zone 
of  white  forehead  under  his  hat  brim  served  to  recall 

45 


Ewing's  Lady 

the  somewhat  fastidious,  sedate,  and  rather  oldish- 
looking  young  man  who  had  parted  from  her. 

He  smiled  at  her  with  a  complacency  that  made  it 
almost  a  smirk.  Then  he  boisterously  kissed  her  again 
before  she  could  evade  him,  and  uttered  once  more 
that  yell  of  lawless  abandon. 

"Clarence!"  she  expostulated,  but  he  waved  her  to 
silence  with  an  imperious  hand. 

"Quickest  way  to  tell  the  story,  Nell — that's  my 
paean  of  victory.  Sleep?  Slept  like  a  night  watchman. 
Eat?  I  debauched  myself  with  the  rowdiest  sort  of 
food  every  chance  I  got — fried  bacon,  boiled  beans, 
baking-powder  biscuit,  black  coffee  that  would  bite 
your  finger  off — couldn't  get  enough;  smoked  when  I 
wasn't  eating  or  sleeping;  drank  raw  whisky,  too — 
whisky  that  would  etch  copper.  Work?  I  worked 
harder  than  a  Coney  Island  piano  player,  fell  over 
asleep  at  night  and  got  up  asleep  in  the  morning — when 
they  kicked  me  the  third  time.  And  I  galloped  up 
and  down  cliffs  after  runaway  steers  where  I  wouldn't 
have  crawled  on  my  hands  and  knees  two  weeks  before. 
And  now  that  whole  bunch  of  boys  treat  me  like  one 
of  themselves.  I  found  out  they  called  me  'Willie 
Four-eyes'  when  I  first  came  here.  Now  they  call  me 
'Doc,'  as  friendly  as  you  can  imagine,  and  Buck  Devlin 
told  me  last  night  I  could  ride  a  streak  of  lightning 
with  the  back  cinch  busted,  if  I  tried." 

He  broke  off  to  light  the  evil  pipe  ostentatiously, 
while  she  watched  him,  open  eyed,  not  yet  equal  to 
speech. 

"Now  run  in  like  a  good  girl  and  see  if  Ma  Pierce 
has  plenty  of  fragments  from  the  noonday  feast.  Any- 
thing at  all — I  could  eat  a  deer  hide  with  the  hair  on." 

46 


Into  the  Past  and  Out 


Wavering  incredulously,  she  left  to  do  his  bidding. 
As  he  led  his  horse  around  to  the  corral  he  roared  a 
snatch  from  Buck  Devlin's  favorite  ballad,  with  an 
excellent  imitation  of  the  cowboy  manner: 

"Oh,  bur-ree  me  not  on  the  lone  prai-ree-e — " 

After  he  had  eaten  he  slouched  into  a  hammock  on 
the  veranda  with  extravagant  groans  of  repletion,  and 
again  lighted  his  pipe.  His  sister  promptly  removed 
her  chair  beyond  the  line  of  its  baleful  emanations. 

"Well,  Sis,"  he  began,  "that  trip  sure  did  for  me 
good  and  plenty.  Me  for  the  high  country  uninter- 
rupted hereafter!" 

She  regarded  him  with  an  amused  smile. 

"I'm  so  glad,  dear,  about  the  health.  It's  a  miracle, 
but  don't  overdo  it,  don't  attempt  everything  at  once. 
And  the  trip  'sure'  seems  to  have  'done'  you  in  another 
way — how  is  it — 'good  and  plenty'?  You  walk  like 
a  cowboy  and  talk  and  sing  and  act  generally  like 
one " 

"Do  I,  really,  though?"  A  sort  of  half-shamed 
pleasure  glowed  in  his  eyes.  "Well,  you  know  they're 
good,  companionable  fellows,  and  a  man  takes  on  their 
ways  of  speech  unconsciously.  But  I  didn't  think  it 
would  be  noticed  in  me  so  soon.  Do  I  seem  like  the 
real  thing,  honestly,  now?" 

She  reassured  him,  laughing  frankly. 

"Well,  you  needn't  laugh.  It's  all  fixed — I'm  going 
to  be  one." 

"But,  Clarence,  not  for  long,  surely!" 

"It's  all  settled,  I  tell  you.  I've  bought  a  ranch, 
old  Swede  Peterson's  place  over  on  Pine  River;  cork- 
ing spot,  three  half  sections  under  fence  and  ditch,  right 

47 


Swing's  Lady 

at  the  mouth  of  a  box  canon  where  nobody  can  get 
in  above  me,  plenty  of  water,  plenty  of  free  range  close 
at  hand." 

"Clarence  Bartell,  you're — what  do  you  call  it?— 
stringing." 

"Not  a  bit  of  it.  Wait  till  I  come  on  in  about  two 
years,  after  selling  a  train  load  of  fat  steers  at  Omaha 
or  Kansas  City — sasshaying  down  Fifth  Avenue  and 
rounding  into  Ninth  Street  with  my  big  hat  and  long- 
shanked  spurs  and  a  couple  of  forty-fours  booming 
into  the  air.  You'll  see,  and  won't  dad  say  it's  deuced 
unpleasant!" 

"But  I'll  not  believe  until  I  see." 

He  spoke  ruminantly  between  pulls  at  the  pipe. 

"  Lots  of  things  to  do  now,  though.  Got  to  go  down 
to  Pagosa  this  week  to  pay  over  the  money,  get  the 
deed,  and  register  my  brand.  How  does  '  Bar-B  '  strike 
you?  Rather  neat,  yes?  It'll  make  a  tasty  little  mono- 
gram on  the  three  hundred  critters  I  start  with.  I'm 
on  track  of  a  herd  of  shorthorns  already." 

"And  a  little  while  ago  you  were  off  to  the  Philip- 
pines, and  before  that  to  Porto  Rico,  and  last  summer 
you  were  going  on  one  of  those  expeditions  that  come 
back  and  tell  why  they  didn't  reach  the  North  Pole, 
and  you  came  out  here  to  be  a  miner  and  you've — 

There  was  an  impatient,  silencing  wave  of  the  pipe. 

"Oh,  let  all  that  go,  can't  you? — let  the  dead  past 
bury  its  dead.  I'm  fixed  for  life.  You  and  dad  won't 
laugh  at  me  any  more.  Come  on  out  now  and  see  me 
throw  a  rope,  if  you  don't  believe  me.  I've  been 
practicing  every  day.  And  say,  you  didn't  happen  to 
notice  the  diamond  hitch  on  that  forward  pack  horse, 
did  you?  Well,  I'm  the  boy  that  did  most  of  that." 

48 


Into  the  Past  and  Out 


She  followed  him  dutifully  to  the  corrals  and  for  half 
an  hour  watched  him  hurl  thirty  feet  of  rope  at  the 
horned  skull  of  a  steer  nailed  to  the  top  of  a  post.  When 
the  noose  settled  over  this  mark  his  boyish  delight  was 
supreme.  When  it  flew  wide,  which  was  oftener,  his 
look  was  one  of  invincible  determination. 

As  his  sister  left  him  he  was  explaining  to  Red  Phin- 
ney,  who  had  sauntered  up  to  be  a  help  in  the  practice, 
that  the  range  of  Bar-B  had  a  lucky  lie — no  "greaser" 
could  come  along  and  "sleep"  him. 

She  went  back  to  her  chair  and  book,  shaping  certain 
questions  she  would  put  to  this  brother.  But  it  was 
not  until  after  the  evening  meal  that  she  could  again 
talk  with  him,  for  the  ardent  novice  found  occupation 
about  the  stable  and  corrals  the  rest  of  the  afternoon, 
and  even  sat  for  a  time  with  the  men  in  the  evening, 
listening  avidly  to  their  small  talk  of  the  range,  watch- 
ful to  share  in  it.  When  he  dared  ask  a  question  know- 
ingly, or  venture  a  swift  comment  couched  in  the  vernac- 
ular, he  thrilled  with  a  joy  not  less  poignant  because 
it  must  be  dissembled. 

But  conscience  pricked  him  at  length  to  leave  those 
fascinating  adventurers  in  the  bunkhouse  and  to  con- 
descend for  an  interval  to  mere  brotherhood.  He 
found  his  sister  alone  in  the  "front"  room,  ensconced 
on  the  bearskin  rug  before  a  snapping  and  fragrant 
fire  of  cedar  wood. 

He  drew  up  the  wooden  rocker  and  remarked  that  the 
fire  smelled  like  a  thousand  burning  leadpencils.  He 
would  have  gone  on  to  talk  of  his  great  experience,  but 
the  woman  wisely  forestalled  him. 

"Clarence,"  she  began  directly,  "I've  been  thinking 
over  that  old  affair  of  Randall  Teevan  and  his  wife, 

49 


Ewing's  Lady 

Kitty  Lowndes,  you  know.  Do  you  happen  to  recall 
the  name  of  the  man — the  man  Kitty  went  away  with?" 

" Lord,  no!  That  was  before  I'd  learned  to  remember 
anything.  If  you  want  to  rake  that  affair  up,  ask 
Randy  Teevan  himself.  I'll  wager  he  hasn't  forgotten 
the  chap's  name.  But  why  desecrate  the  grave  of  so 
antique  a  scandal?  Ask  me  about  something  later. 
I  remember  he  had  a  cook  once,  when  I  was  six " 

"Because — because  I  was  thinking,  just  thinking. 
Are  you  certain  you  remember  nothing  about  it,  not 
even  the  man's  name,  nor  what  sort  of  man  he  was, 
nor  what  he  did,  nor  anything?" 

"I  only  know  what  you  must  know.  Randall 
Teevan's  wife  decided  that  the  Bishop  had  made  two 
into  the  wrong  one.  I  doubt  if  I  ever  heard  the  chap's 
name.  I  seem  to  remember  that  they  took  Alden 
with  them — he  was  a  baby  of  four  or  five,  I  believe, 
and  that  Randy  scurried  about  and  got  him  back  after 
no  end  of  fuss.  I've  heard  dad  speak  of  that." 

"Did  Kitty  and  that  man  every  marry?" 

"No;  you  can  be  sure  Teevan  saw  to  that.  He  took 
precious  good  care  not  to  divorce  her.  They  manage 
those  things  more  politely  nowadays;  everything  formal, 
six  months'  lease  of  a  furnished  house  in  Sioux  Falls, 
with  the  chap  living  at  a  hotel  and  dropping  in  for  tea 
every  day  at  five ;  and  felicitations  from  the  late  husband 
when  the  decree  is  granted  in  the  morning  and  the  new 
knot  tied  in  the  afternoon — another  slipknot  like  the 
first,  so  that  the  merest  twitch  at  a  loose  end  will " 

"Please  don't!  And  did  you  never  know  anything 
more  about  them,  where  they  lived  or  how  they  ended?" 

"Never  a  thing,  Sis.  It's  all  so  old,  everybody's 
forgotten  it,  except  Teevan.  Of  course  he'd  not  forget 

50 


Into  the  Past  and  Out 


the  only  woman  who  ever  really  put  a  lance  through 
his  shirt-of-mail  vanity." 

"You  forget  Kitty's  mother.     She  remembers." 

"That's  so,  by  Jove.  Teevan  got  what  was  coming 
to  him,  he  got  his  'cone-uppance'  as  the  boys  say;  but 
old  Kitty — yes,  it  was  rough  on  her.  But  she's  always 
put  a  great  face  on  it.  No  one  would  know  if  they 
didn't  know." 

"She's  proud.  Even  though  she's  been  another 
mother  to  me  she  rarely  lets  me  see  anything,  and  she's 
tried  so  hard  to  find  comfort  in  Kitty's  boy,  in  Alden. 
She's  failed  in  that,  though,  for  some  reason." 

Her  brother  glanced  sharply  at  her.  "I'll  tell  you 
why  she's  failed,  Nell.  Alden  Teevan  wasn't  designed 
to  be  a  comfort  to  anyone,  not  even  to  himself.  There 
was  too  much  Teevan  in  him  at  the  start,  and  too  much 
Teevan  went  into  his  raising." 

"They're  back  in  town,  you  know." 

"Yes;  Teevan  must  have  realized  that  old  Kitty 
is  getting  on  in  years,  and  has  a  bit  of  money  for  Alden. 
Say,  Sis,  I  hate  to  seem  prying,  but  you  don't — you're 
not  thinking  about  Alden  Teevan  seriously,  are  you? 
Come,  let's  be  confidential  for  twenty  seconds." 

She  mused  a  moment,  then  faced  him  frankly. 

"There's  something  I  like  in  Alden,  and  something 
I  don't.  I  know  what  I  like  and  I  don't  know  what 
I  don't  like— I  only  feel  it.  There!" 

He  reached  over  to  take  one  of  her  hands. 

"Well,  Sis,  you  trust  to  the  feeling.  You  couldn't 
be  happy  there.  And  you  deserve  something  fine, 
poor  child!  You  deserve  to  be  happy  again."  His 
inner  eye  looked  back  six  years  to  see  the  body  of  poor 
Dick  L,aithe  carried  into  the  Adirondack  camp  by  two 


Ewing's  Lady 

silent  guides  who  had  found  him  where  a  stray  bullet 
left  him. 

She  turned  a  tired,  smiling  face  into  the  light. 

"I  was  happy,  so  happy;  yet  I  wonder  if  you  can 
understand  how  vague  it  seems  now.  It  was  so  brief 
and  ended  so  terribly.  I  think  the  shock  of  it  made 
me  another  woman.  Dick  and  I  seem  like  a  boy  and 
girl  I  once  knew  who  laughed  and  played  childish 
games  and  never  became  real.  I  find  myself  sympa- 
thizing with  them  sometimes,  as  I  would  with  two 
dear  young  things  in  a  story  that  ended  sadly." 

He  awkwardly  stroked  and  patted  the  hand  he  still 
held. 

"Come  and  live  with  me,  Nell.  There's  only  a  one- 
room  cabin  at  that  place  now,  with  a  carpet  of  hay  on 
the  dirt  floor.  But  I'll  have  a  mansion  there  next 
summer  that  will  put  the  eye  out  of  this  shack  at  Bar-y. 
I  believe  in  getting  back  to  Nature,  but  I  don't  want 
to  land  clear  the  other  side  of  her.  You'd  be  comfy 
with  me.  And  it's  a  great  life;  not  a  line  of  dyspepsia 
in  it.  And  think  of  feeling  yourself  sliding  off  to  sleep 
the  moment  you  touch  the  pillow,  as  plainly  as  you 
feel  yourself  going  down  in  an  elevator.  That  reminds 
me,  I'm  going  to  bed  down  with  the  boys  in  the  bunk- 
house  to-night.  I'm  afraid  to  trust  myself  in  that  bed 
upstairs  again — I've  lain  awake  there  so  many  nights." 

For  a  time  she  lost  the  thread  of  his  rambling  talk, 
busied  with  her  own  thoughts.  She  was  faintly  aware 
that  for  luncheon  he  had  been  eating  a  biscuit,  a  thick, 
soggy,  dangerous  biscuit,  caught  up  in  the  hurry  of  the 
morning's  packing,  wrenched  in  half  and  sopped  in 
bacon  grease.  There  was  a  word  about  shooting. 
He  was  learning  to  "hold  down"  the  Colt's  44,  and  had 

52 


Into  the  Past  and  Out 


almost  hit  a  coyote.  Later,  words  reached  her  of  a 
cold  night  on  the  divide,  when  ice  formed  in  the  pail 
by  the  cooking  fire.  What  at  last  brought  her  back 
was  a  yawn  and  his  remark  that  he  must  "hole  up" 
for  the  night. 

"Clarence,"  she  began,  looking  far  into  a  little  white- 
hot  chamber  between  two  half -burned  logs,  "listen, 
please,  and  advise  me.  If  you  were  going  to  do  some- 
thing that  might,  just  possibly,  and  not  by  any  means 
certainly,  rake  up  rather  an  ugly  mess,  in  a  sort  of 
remote  way — that  might  make  some  people  uncom- 
fortable, you  understand — I  mean  if  you  saw  some- 
thing that  ought  to  be  done,  because  the  person  deserved 
it,  and  it  was  by  no  means  that  person's  fault,  not 
in  the  least,  and  the  person  didn't  even  know  about 
it  nor  suspect  anything,  would  you  stop  because  it 
might  be  painful  to  some  one  else — just  possibly  it 
might — or  to  a  number  of  people,  or  even  to  the  person 
himself,  after  he  knew  it?  Or  would  you  go  ahead  and 
trust  to  luck,  especially  when  there's  a  chance  that  it 
mightn't  ever  come  out?  —  though  I'm  quite  sure  it's 
true,  you  see,  and  that's  what  makes  it  so  hard  to  know 
what  to  do." 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  bright  expectancy.  Clutch- 
ing his  head  with  both  hands,  he  stared  at  her,  alarm 
leaping  in  his  eyes. 

"Would  you  mind  repeating  that  slowly?"  he  began, 
in  hushed,  stricken  tones.  "No,  no — I  shouldn't  ask 
that.  One  moment,  please — now  it  all  comes  back 
to  me.  I  see  in  fancy  the  dear  old  home,  and  hear 
faithful  Rover  barking  his  glad  welcome.  Ah,  now 
I  have  the  answer ;  I  knew  it  would  come.  It's  because 
one  is  a  toiler  of  the  sea  and  the  other  is  a  soiler  of  the 

53 


Ewing's  Lady 


tea — then  the  ball  is  snapped  back  for  a  run  around 
the  end  and  the  man  on  third  must  return  to  his  base." 

"I  might  have  known  you  couldn't  understand," 
she  said  regretfully;  "but  I  can't  possibly  be  more 
explicit.  I  thought  if  I  stated  the  case  clearly  in  the 
abstract — but  I  dare  say  it's  a  waste  of  time  to  ask 
advice  in  such  matters." 

"You've  wasted  yours,  my  child,  if  that's  the  last 
chance  I  get.  Do  you  really  want  help  about  some- 
thing?" 

"  No,  dear,  it  wasn't  anything.     Never  mind." 

"All  right,  if  you  say  so.  And  now,  me  for  the 
blankets!" 

When  he  had  gone  she  stepped  out  into  the  night 
under  the  close,  big  stars.  She  breathed  deeply  of 
the  thin,  sharp  air  and  looked  over  at  the  luminous 
pearl  of  a  moon  that  seemed  to  hang  above  the  cabin 
where  Ewing's  kid  would  doubtless  be  dreaming.  Her 
lips  fell  into  a  little  smile,  half  cynical,  half  tender. 

"I'll  do  it  anyway!"  The  inflection  was  defiant, 
but  the  words  were  scarcely  more  than  a  whisper. 
She  said  them  again,  giving  them  tone. 


54 


CHAPTER  VI 
THE  LADY  AND  THE  PLAN 

THEY  were  chatting  the  next  morning  over  the 
late   breakfast    of   Mrs.    Laithe.     Her    brother, 
summoned  from  the  branding  pen,  where  tender 
and  terrified  calves  were  being  marked  for  life,  had  come 
reluctantly,  ill  disposed  to  forego  the  vivacity  of  that 
scene.     He  had  rushed  in  with  the  look  of  a  man  harassed 
by  large  affairs.     His  evil  beard  was  still  unshorn,  his 
dress  as  untidy  as  care  could   make  it.     He  drew  a 
chair  up  to  the  oilcloth  covered  table  and   surveyed 
the  meager  fare  of  his  sister  with  high  disapproval. 

"What  you  need  is  food,  Nell,"  he  began  abruptly. 
"  Look  at  me.  This  morning  I  ate  two  pounds  of 
oatmeal,  three  wide  slices  of  ham,  five  chunks  of  hot 
bread,  about  two  thousand  beans,  and  drank  all  the 
coffee  I  could  get — and  never  foundered.  How's 
that,  against  one  silly  glass  of  malted  milk  two  weeks 
ago?  And  I  slept  till  seven.  I  woke  up  for  just  eight 
seconds  at  four-thirty  to  hear  the  boys  turning  out. 
Oh,  it  was  gray  and  cold  in  that  bunkhouse — with 
me  warm  in  the  blankets.  That  was  the  one  moment 
of  real  luxury  I've  ever  known — not  to  turn  out  if  I 
didn't  choose.  And  I  did  not  choose — if  anyone  should 
ride  up  hastily  and  inquire  of  you.  When  we  were 
on  the  drive  I  had  to  turn  out  with  the  rest  of  the  bunch 
and  catch  horses  and  unbuckle  frosty  hobbles  with 
stiff  fingers,  and  fetch  pails  of  ice  water  and  freeze  and 

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Ewing's  Lady 


do  other  things,  but  this  morning  I  just  grinned  myself 
asleep  again.  That  was  worth  living  for,  my  girl." 

But  his  sister  was  for  once  unresponsive.  She  had 
not  seemed  to  hear  him. 

"Clarence,"  she  began,  as  if  reciting  lines  she  had 
learned,  "there's  a  chap  over  on  the  next  ranch — 
Ewing's  his  name — that  ought  to  have  something  done 
for  him.  He's  young,  twenty-four,  I  believe,  and 
boyish  even  for  that  age,  but  he  draws;  draws  well. 
His  father  was  a  painter  who  died  here  years  ago, 
and  the  boy  has  lived  in  these  mountains  ever  since. 
His  father  taught  him  to  draw,  but  he  has  had  no  chance 
to  study,  and  he's  reached  a  point  where  he  must  learn 
more  or  lose  all  he  has.  I'm  almost  certain  he  can 
make  something  of  himself.  He  ought  to  go  to  New 
York,  where  he  can  study  and  see  pictures  and  find 
out  things.  Now,  please  advise  me  about  it." 

"How's  his  health — his  stomach?" 

"I  believe  we've  never  spoken  of  it.  That's  hardly 
the  point." 

"Well,  I  call  it  a  big  point.  Suppose  he  went  off 
to  New  York  and  got  plumb  ruined,  the  way  I  did — 
no  eats,  no  sleeps.  If  you  want  my  advice,  he  ought 
to  stay  right  here  where  everybody's  healthy.  He 
shouldn't  be  foolish." 

"Clarence!"  Her  eyes  shone  with  impatience.  "It 
isn't  whether  he's  to  go  or  not.  He's  going,  and  he's 
to  have  money  to  keep  him  there  till  he  makes  himself 
known.  It's  on  that  point  I  need  advice." 

"Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon!  I  didn't  savvy  at  first. 
You're  to  tell  me  what  to  advise  and  I'm  to  advise  it? 
Well,  tell  me  what  to  say." 

"Don't  be  stupid,  dear — just  for  a  moment,  please. 

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The  Lady  and  the  Plan 


You're  bound  to  agree  with  me  when  you  see  his  work. 
And  you  might  offer  to  lend  him  the  money — my  money, 
though  he's  not  to  know  that.  Or  perhaps  you  ought 
to  buy  his  pictures.  I'm  sure  you'll  want  some  of  those 
things  he  has.  Of  course  that's  the  better  way.  It 
will  let  him  feel  independent.  There,  it's  fixed.  It 
was  simple,  after  all."  She  flashed  him  a  look  of  grati- 
tude. "  You're  a  help  after  all,  dear,  when  you  choose 
to  be." 

"But — one  moment,  my  babe!  Perhaps  after  listen- 
ing to  my  advice  so  meekly  you'll  let  the  poor  chap  say 
a  word  for  himself.  Perhaps  he'd  rather  stay  right  here 
in  God's  own  country  if  he  eats  and  sleeps  well  now." 

"Please,  please,  let's  not  be  so — so  foody!  Of 
course  he  wants  to  go!" 

"But  what  in  Heaven's  name  would  you  ever  have 
done  without  my  help,  poor  mindless  child  that  you  are?" 

But  she  was  oblivious  to  this  subtlety. 

"Yes,  dear,  you're  always  a  comfort.  We'll  ride  over 
this  afternoon  and  tell  him  he's  to  go.  It  will  be  a  fine 
thing  to  do — he's  so  promising." 

"Look  here,  Nell" — he  glanced  at  her  shrewdly — 
"is  this  to  be  his  picnic  or  yours?" 

She  burned  with  a  little  inner  rage  to  feel  her  cheeks 
redden,  but  the  black  fringe  of  her  eyes  did  not  fall  before 
him. 

"We'll  ride  over  after  luncheon,"  she  repeated, 
"and  I  do  wish,  Clarence,  that  you'd  shave  and  wear  a 
collar  or  a  stock,  and  throw  that  unspeakable  coat  away, 
and  have  your  boots  cleaned,  and  send  for  some  cigars." 

He  looked  complacently  down  over  the  objectionable 
attire,  pulled  sputteringly  at  the  condemned  pipe,  then 
grinned  at  her. 

5  57 


Ewing's  Lady 

"Say,  Sis,  if  it's  going  to  be  that  much  fun  for  you, 
I'll  rope  and  throw  him,  and  send  him  on  tied  if  he  acts 
rough." 

Late  that  evening  the  two  inmates  of  the  lake  cabin 
sat  before  the  big  fireplace  in  the  studio  to  talk  of  a 
wondrous  thing.  They  had  survived  the  most  exciting 
half  day  in  the  life  of  either,  and  the  atmosphere  of  the 
room  was  still  electrical  with  echoes  of  the  big  event. 
Through  their  supper  Ewing,  unable  to  eat,  had  sat 
staring  afar,  helpless  in  the  rush  of  the  current,  inert 
as  a  bowlder  in  the  bed  of  a  mountain  stream.  He, 
so  long  at  rest,  was  to  be  swept  down  from  the  peace  of 
his  hill  nook  to  the  ocean,  to  life  itself.  It  was  a  thing 
to  leave  one  aghast  with  a  consternation  that  was  some- 
how joyous.  Since  supper  he  had  stared  into  the  fire 
in  dumb  surrender  to  the  flood,  with  intervals  of  dazed 
floor-pacing,  in  which  he  tried  to  foresee  his  course. 

Ben  Crider,  submerged  by  the  waters  of  the  same  cloud- 
burst, was  giving  stouter  battle  to  the  current.  His 
face  drawn  to  more  than  its  wonted  dejection,  he  strove 
to  play  the  beacon.  Between  snatches  of  worldly  coun- 
sel he  read  with  solemn  inflection  certain  gems  of  guid- 
ance from  authors  in  whose  wisdom  he  had  long  felt 
a  faith  entire.  His  ready  mind  harked  forward  to  dire- 
ful emergencies,  and  he  submitted  devices  for  meeting 
these.  •• 

"  Remember  what  that  says,  Kid,"  he  urged  impres- 
sively, and  he  read  once  more  a  saving  passage  from  his 
well-thumbed  "Guide  to  Polite  Behavior."  '"If  you 
cannot  sing  a  song  or  tell  a  mirth -provoking  story  at 
an  evening  ball  or  party  you  may  well  perform  a  few 
tricks  in  legerdemain.  The  following  are  among  the 
simplest  and,  when  deftly  performed  never  fail  to 

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The  Lady  and  the  Plan 


provoke  loud  applause  and  win  you  the  undying  gratitude 
of  your  hostess.'  Are  you  a-hearin'  me?  Well,  I've 
turned  down  the  pages  at  that  one  with  the  coin  and  the 
hat,  and  the  one  where  you  must  tell  the  right  card  by 
a  simple  act  of  mind-readin'.  And  don't  forget  what 
he  says  here,  'the  hand  is  quicker'n  the  eye.' " 

"Yes,  Ben;  I'm  listening." 

"Well,  listen  to  this  here  other  book.  It's  more 
serious." 

He  took  up  his  treasured  "Traps  and  Pitfalls  of  a 
Great  City,"  and  again  became  a  voice  in  the  wilderness, 
waving  a  forefinger  to  punctuate  and  warn. 

"  'It  is  the  habit  of  these  gentry  to  lie  in  wait  for  their 
intended  victims  when  they  alight  at  the  principal  rail- 
way stations,  and  where,  by  their  plausible  and  insinuat- 
ing advances,  they  ingratiate  themselves  into  the  con- 
fidence of  those  whom  it  is  their  purpose  to  fleece ;  hence 
the  name,  "confidence  men."  Only  by  constant  watch- 
fulness and  a  thorough  knowledge  of  their  methods 
may  the  stranger  in  the  great  city  hope  to  escape  their 
wiles,  since  their  ways  of  approach  are  manifold.' 
You  hear  that,  Kid — their  ways  is  manifold.  Here's 
a  pitcher  of  one  of  'em  tacklin'  a  countryman.  See 
what  an  oily-lookin'  feller  he  is,  stovepipe  hat,  fancy 
vest,  big  watchchain,  long  coat,  striped  pants.  You'd 
say  he  was  a  bank  president.  Oh,  I  bet  they're  slick 
ones.  They'd  have  to  be  to\og  out  like  that  every  day 
in  the  week.  Now  remember,  if  one  o'  them  ducks  comes 
up  to  you  and  starts  to  butter  you  up  with  fine  words 
and  wants  to  carry  your  satchel,  you  just  let  out  a  yell 
for  the  police  and  hand  him  over.  That's  the  way 
to  settle  'em!" 

"I'll  surely  remember,  Ben." 

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Swing's  Lady 


"And  there's  thugs  and  footpads.  Always  keep 
your  coat  buttoned  over  your  watch,  it  says,  and  if 
you're  goin'  along  Broadway  or  Fifth  Avenue  after 
dark,  get  out  and  walk  in  the  middle  o'  the  street,  so's 
they  can't  spring  around  a  corner  and  slug  you.  And 
don't  talk  to  strangers,  and  don't  look  into  store 
windows  ner  up  at  the  high  buildin's,  else  they'll  spot 
you  fer  a  greeny  and  give  you  the  laugh." 

"I  can't  believe  it  yet,  Ben."  He  rose  to  walk  the 
floor  again,  his  hands  sunk  deep  in  his  pockets,  his  head 
bent  low. 

"And  don't  git  into  no  card  game  on  the  train  with 
a  couple  o'  smooth  strangers  that  ain't  ever  met  each 
other  before  and  want  to  pass  away  the  time  pleasantly. 
And  don't  bet  you  can  open  the  patent  lock  after  you 
think  you  found  the  secret  spring.  And  don't  buy  any 
o'  that  money  you  can't  tell  from  real,  that  was  printed 
from  stolen  Gov'ment  plates." 

"  Think  of  his  giving  a  hundred  dollars  for  that  drawing 
of  'L,on  Pierce  on  the  pinto,  throwing  a  steer,  and  all 
that  money  for  the  others." 

"Serves  him  right!"  Ben  hissed  this  vindictively, 
having  first  reluctantly  laid  aside  "Traps  and  Pitfalls." 
"Serves  him  dead  right!  That  feller  puts  on  a  wise 
look  that's  about  sixty-five  years  beyond  his  real  age, 
as  I'd  cal'late  it.  I  tell  you,  son,  it  sure  takes  all  kinds 
o'  fools  to  make  a  world." 

"But  he  said  they  were  worth  the  money,"  Ewing 
pleaded.  "He  said  I  would  do  even  better,  some 
day." 

"Sure — sure  he  said  it!  An'  didn't  he  ask  me  if  I 
had  dyspepsia,  an'  did  I  sleep  at  night,  an'  I'd  better 
remember  to  live  an  outdoor  life  of  activity  if  I  ever  got 

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The  Lady  and  the  Plan 


that  a- way.  An'  he  thinks  he's  learned  how  to  grain 
a  deer  hide  after  watching  me  do  it  three  minutes,  an' 
he's  goin'  to  pick  up  a  live  skunk  next  chanct  he  gits, 
because  I  told  him  jest  how  to  grab  it.  Oh,  he  said 
things  all  right!  He  said  a  variety  o'  things!"  He 
glared  at  Ewing  as  he  rounded  out  this  catalogue  of 
follies. 

"I'm  torn  in  two,  Ben.  I  shan't  be  glad  to  leave 
here,  and  yet  I'll  be  glad  to  go.  I've  dreamed  it  so 
long.  It  seems  as  if  I'd  dreamed  it  so  hard  I'd  made 
it  come  true." 

"Always  pin  your  money  to  the  inside  of  your  vest, 
like  I  told  you,"  came  the  voice  of  warning. 

"I  will,  I  will.  But  things  do  happen,  don't  they? 
This  is  like  a  fairy  tale." 

"Fairy  tale!"  The  wise  one  uttered  this  with  violent 
scorn.  "  Likely  you  was  the  sleepin'  beauty,  an'  this 
here  princess  comes  along  with  an  alarm  clock!" 

"Not  a  princess,  Ben."  He  laughed  boyishly.  "She's 
a  sure-enough  queen." 

"Jest  remember  they's  knaves  in  the  deck.  That's 
all  /  ask." 

"You  like  her  don't  you?" 

Ben  made  an  effort  to  be  fair. 

"Well,  I  do  an'  then  I  don't.  She's  saddle  stock, 
fur  looks,  that  lady  is,  but  she  ain't  serious.  No,  sir! 
When  her  eyes  is  on  me  I  know  as  well's  I  want  to  she's 
snickerin'  inside;  makes  no  difference  if  her  face  does 
look  like  it  was  starched.  You'll  find,  when  all's 
said  an'  done,  that  she's  plumb  levitous,  an'  levitous 
folks  is  triflin'. " 

"Have  you  seen  how  sorrowful  she  looks  sometimes, 
a  sort  of  glad-sorry,  as  if  she  felt  sorry  for  herself  and 

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Ewing's  Lady 

glad  for  other  people?  She  makes  me  feel  old  when  she 
looks  that  way— as  if  I  must  protect  her." 

"Yes,  an'  other  times  she's  stiffer'n  Lot's  wife!" 

"Other  times  she  seems  older  than  all  the  world,  a 
woman  who  has  always  lived  and  always  will." 

"Well,  son,  when  you  git  put  afoot  there,  you  write 
on  an'  I'll  manage  to  scare  up  a  git-away  stake  fur 
you." 

"  It's  wonderful  to  think  of  going  out  into  the  world 
that  they  knew,  Ben — my  father  and  mother.  It  seems 
as  if  they  must  be  out  there  now,  and  that  I'm  going 
to  meet  them  very  quietly  and  naturally  some  day. 
I  think  it  wouldn't  astonish  me." 

"Look  a-here,  Kid!  That'll  be  about  enough  o' 
that!  You  go  to  bed." 

The  other  smiled  a  little  wanly. 

"  I  can't.  I'm  afraid  to.  I'm  going  to  sit  here  awhile 
and  think,  and  when  the  moon  gets  up  I'm  going  out- 
side to  think.  The  hills  haven't  heard  the  news  yet, 
and  the  trail  over  to  the  lake  doesn't  know  about  it. 
I've  got  to  spread  it  before  I  sleep.  You  see,  when  I 
do  sleep,  I'm  afraid  I'll  wake  up  and  find  it  was  stuff 
I  dreamed." 

"Shucks,  Kid,  what's  the  use  o'  talking  like  that? 
It  ain't  no  dream.  It's  true  as  God  made  little  apples." 
There  was,  at  the  moment,  a  noticeable  relaxation  from 
the  speaker's  habitual  austerity.  An  awkward  smile 
of  affection  melted  the  hardness  of  his  face  as  he  held 
out  a  hand  to  Ewing.  "An'  I'm  doggoned  if  I'd  be  so 
all-fired  amazed  if  everything  come  out  fur  the  best. 
Yes,  sir,  blame  me,  Kid,  if  I  don't  almost  half  b'lieve 
you'll  make  good!" 

"You  can  bet  I'll  try,  Ben!" 

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The  Lady  and  the  Plan 


"That's  right;  you  do  your  damndest — 'angels  can 
do  no  more,'  as  the  feller  said." 

As  he  lighted  a  candle  his  face  was  grim  once  more — 
savagely  grim,  even  as  he  sang,  in  going  to  his  rest: 

"  Oh,  't  was  on  a  summer's  eve  when  I  first  metier, 
Swingin'  on  the  garden  ga-a-atel" 


CHAPTER  VII 

TWO  SLEEPERS  AWAKEN 

IT  now  befell  that  the  imminent  adventure  of  Ewing 
should  bring  him  a  double  rapture.  The  day  after 
Mrs.  Laithe  secretly  played  special  Providence  to 
that  unsuspicious  youth  her  brother  found  profit  of  his 
own  in  the  plan. 

"I've  a  world  of  things  to  do  here,  Nell,"  he  said. 
"I  ought  to  stay  here  this  winter.  I'd  be  that  much 
forwarder  with  my  work  next  spring." 

"I  shall  be  quite  safe  alone,"  she  answered. 

"Why  go  alone?  If  you  insist  on  robbing  the  cradle, 
why  not  take  the  innocent  with  you?  Of  course  you'll 
have  to  see  that  he  doesn't  walk  off  the  train,  or  lose 
his  hat  out  of  the  window,  or  eat  too  much  candy,  or 
rough-house  the  other  children  on  the  way,  but  he'll 
serve  every  purpose  of  a  man  and  brother." 

"To  be  sure!"  she  broke  in  with  enthusiasm.  "I 
worried  last  night  about  his  going.  We'll  put  it  that 
I'm  in  his  charge,  and  he  will  really  be  in  mine." 

"That's  it.  He'll  feel  important,  and  you'll  be  the 
tidy  nurse.  And  with  both  of  you  off  my  mind  I  can 
start  those  chaps  to  getting  out  logs  for  the  Bar-B 
mansion.  I'll  camp  over  there  till  a  good  tracking  snow 
comes,  then  I'll  have  an  elk  hunt — I  want  a  good  head 
for  the  dining  room — then  I'll  hole  up  here  at  Pierce's 
for  the  winter  and  learn  how  to  handle  my  stock.  So 
that's  settled." 

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Two  Sleepers  Awaken 


Mrs.  Laithe  rode  over  to  apprise  Ewing  of  this  plan. 
The  little  clearing  slept  vacant  in  the  sunlight.  She  left 
Cooney  "  tied  to  the  ground  "  by  throwing  the  bridle  rein 
over  his  head,  and  knocked  on  the  open  door  of  the  cabin 
with  the  handle  of  her  quirt.  There  was  no  response 
save  echoes  from  the  empty  living  room.  Crossing 
this  she  drew  aside  the  blanket  that  curtained  the  door 
of  the  studio.  The  big  room  lay  before  her  in  strange 
disorder.  Pictures  and  hangings  were  gone  from  the 
wall.  Two  yawning  trunks  stood  by  the  door ;  canvases 
and  portfolios  lay  about;  loose  drawings  and  clothing 
littered  the  chairs  and  floor.  Beyond  this  disarray 
stood  the  easel,  still  holding  the  mother's  portrait. 
In  the  light  from  the  window  the  eyes  looked  livingly 
into  her  own  through  the  silence.  She  was  struck  by 
some  new  glint  of  meaning  in  them,  something  she  read 
as  an  appeal,  almost  a  prayer.  Her  own  eyes  fell  and 
then  she  first  noticed  the  room's  living  occupant. 

On  the  couch,  in  the  shadow  of  the  half-drawn  cur- 
tain, Ewing  lay  asleep.  He  had  sprawled  there  easily, 
half  turned  on  his  side,  one  arm  flung  about  his  head,  the 
other  hanging  over  to  the  floor.  Now  that  she  saw  him 
she  heard  his  measured  breathing.  Some  new,  quick- 
born  interest — curiosity,  sympathy,  she  knew  not  what — 
impelled  her  to  scan  the  sleeping  face  more  closely. 
She  stepped  lightly  across  to  the  couch  and  looked  down 
at  him,  with  a  little  air  of  carelessness  against  his  sudden 
awakening.  It  was  the  first  time  she  had  studied  his 
face  in  repose.  Lacking  the  ready,  boyish  smile,  it 
was  an  older  face,  revealing  lines  of  maturity  she  had 
not  suspected  in  the  arch  of  brow  above  the  deep-set 
eyes,  in  the  lean  jaws  and  sharply  square  chin,  and  in  the 
muscled  neck,  revealed  by  the  thrown-back  head.  It 

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Ewing's  Lady 

was  a  new  face,  for  the  unguarded  faces  of  the  sleeping, 
like  the  faces  of  the  dead  tell  many  secrets.  Ewing's 
face  was  all  at  once  full  of  new  suggestion,  of  new  depths, 
of  unsuspected  complexities.  As  she  gazed,  scarce 
breathing,  she  was  alive  to  a  new  consciousness  of  him. 
He  had  been  a  boy,  winning  from  her  at  once  by  his 
fresh,  elemental  humanness  a  regard  that  came  partly 
from  the  mother  lying  alert  in  her,  and  partly  from  the 
joyous,  willing  and  even  wistful  comrade  which  this 
woman  was  fitted  to  be.  Now,  bending  over  the  un- 
masked face,  she  divined  with  swift  alarm  that  her  old 
careless  attitude  toward  the  sleeper  might  never  be  re- 
covered. What  her  new  attitude  must  be  she  could  not 
yet  know,  but  she  was  conscious  of  being  swept  by  a 
great  wave  of  tenderness  for  him;  swept,  too,  by  fear 
of  him ;  and  the  impact  of  these  waves  left  her  trembling 
before  him.  Some  flash  of  portent,  some  premonition 
born  of  instinct,  warned  her  with  a  clearness  that  was 
blinding.  Tenderness  and  fear  rolled  in  upon  her,  though 
her  reason  weighed  them  as  equal  absurdities.  Then 
her  look  rose  to  the  mother's  portrait  and  she  saw  that 
the  eyes  had  followed  her :  they  seemed  now  to  challenge, 
almost  fiercely.  Only  the  briefest  of  moments  could 
she  endure  their  gaze,  a  gaze  that  in  some  way  drew  life 
to  itself  from  the  breathing  of  the  sleeper.  Instinctively 
she  brushed  her  hand  before  her  own  eyes,  drew  herself 
up  with  a  little  flinching  shudder  and  moved  slowly  back- 
ward to  the  door. 

Then  she  was  happily  out  in  the  sunlight,  breathing 
deep  of  the  pine-spiced  air,  gratefully  eying  the  famil- 
iar boundaries  of  the  clearing,  the  stumps,  the  huge  pile 
of  cut  wood,  and  the  fenced-in  vegetable  garden.  Over 
the  line  of  green  to  the  north  a  gray,  bare  mountain  shot 

66 


Two  Sleepers  Awaken 


above  the  lesser  hills,  rising  splendidly  from  its  timbered 
base  to  a  peak  hooded  in  snow.  It  swam  in  her  vision 
at  first,  but  presently  something  of  its  grounded  sure- 
ness,  something  of  the  peace  that  slept  along  its  upper 
reaches,  fell  upon  her  own  soul  and  her  serenity  was 
restored. 

Not  pausing  to  review  those  amazing  moments  of 
inner  tumult,  she  stepped  again  to  the  door  and  with  her 
old,  careless,  mildly  amused  laugh  she  beat  upon  it, 
loudly  this  time.  She  heard  an  inarticulate  call  from 
the  studio,  and  again  she  assaulted  the  panel.  Then 
the  curtain  was  drawn  aside  and  Ewing  stared  at  her 
from  the  doorway. 

"  I  believe  you  were  sleeping,"  she  started  to  say,  but 
he  came  quickly  to  her  with  something  between  a  laugh 
and  a  shout. 

"  Then  it's  true,  it  is  true — you're  real !  I  just  dreamed 
that  you  became  Ben  Crider  and  made  me  walk  in  the 
middle  of  the  street."  He  fairly  rushed  her  into  the 
studio  and  waved  excitedly  to  the  open  trunks. 

"There!  I  began  to  pack  last  night  so  I  could  see  it 
when  I  woke  up  and  have  a  proof  that  things  were  true. 
I  didn't  sleep  at  all  till  about  eight  this  morning." 

She  sat  on  the  couch,  feeling  that  she  was  foolish  be- 
yond measure  to  avoid  the  eyes  of  the  portrait.  Then 
she  smiled  at  him  with  an  effort  to  recover  the  amused 
ascendancy  of  their  first  meetings. 

"  It's  all  true,  I  assure  you,  and  I  wonder  if  you'd  mind 
taking  charge  of  me  when  you  go  East.  My  brother 
has  suggested  it,  and  I'll  promise  not  to  be  a  trouble." 

His  look  of  wondering  delight  was  so  utterly  boyish, 
his  helpless  laughter  so  entirely  without  reserve  that 
she  regained  for  the  moment  her  old  easy  dominance. 

67 


Ewing's  Lady 

"Would  I  mind — mind  going  with  you?  That's  a 
joke,  isn't  it?"  He  seized  both  her  hands  in  a  grasp 
from  which  she  caught  some  thrill  of  his  deep-breathed, 
electric  joy. 

"But  of  course  this  is  nonsense,"  he  went  on;  "I'm 
still  lying  there." 

"  Enough  of  dreams,"  she  broke  in  warningly.  "  You'll 
find  it  only  too,  too  real.  You're  going  to  work.  It's 
simple." 

He  sat  down  on  one  of  the  trunks,  trying  to  subdue  his 
excitement,  his  hands  clenched. 

"If  this  feeling  lasts  I  can  do  anything,  anything, 
you  understand,  learn  everything,  do  everything,  be 
everything.  I  have  power.  Ever  since  you  left  yester- 
day I've  felt  full  of  steel  springs,  all  tightly  coiled.  Only 
I  must  be  careful.  If  they  went  off  all  at  once  there'd 
be  an  explosion,  and  I'm  afraid  I  couldn't  ever  be 
repaired." 

She  grimaced  with  an  effort  at  mock  dismay  which 
was  not  wholly  successful.  She  divined  the  literal 
truth  under  his  jesting.  The  springs  were  coiled  and 
their  steel  was  not  too  well  tempered,  she  believed.  The 
thought  left  a  shadow  on  her  face. 

"You're  not  doubting  anything?"  he  asked  quickly. 

"Not  doubting,  O  youth!  Only  a  little  innocent 
wonder." 

"  But  isn't  life  an  enchantment?  Isn't  it  all  miracles? 
Oh,  I  understand  poets  at  last.  They  can't  tell  you 
their  secret  unless  you  already  know  it.  They  sing  in 
big  numbers.  They  say  a  million  is  true,  and  you  say, 
'Yes,  that's  very  pretty,  but  it's  poetry — exaggeration; 
he  really  means  that  a  hundred  is  true,'  and  you  never 
know  any  better  till  the  light  comes.  Then  you  see 

68 


Two  Sleepers  Awaken 


that  the  poet  was  literal  and  quite  prosaic  all  the  time. 
The  whole  million  was  always  true,  in  beauty  and  big- 
ness and  wonder." 

"  Stop ! "  she  protested.  "  You're  making  me  feel  as  old 
as  the  world  itself,  ancient  and  scarred  with  wisdom." 

"You!"  he  burst  in,  "you're  as  young  as  the  world. 
You  are  foolish  and  I  am  the  wise  one  if  you  can't  see 
that.  Indeed,  you're  looking  beautifully  foolish  this 
minute.  You  are  thinking  all  kinds  of  doubts  under- 
neath a  lot  of  things  you  won't  tell  me.  You're  secre- 
tive. You  hide  a  lot  from  me." 

She  laughed,  a  little  uneasily. 

"You  are  a  babe  for  wisdom,"  she  retorted;  "but 
you're  not  to  be  enlightened  in  a  day — nor  by  me.  I'll 
give  you  a  year.  You  shall  tell  me  then  which  of  us 
two  is  the  older.  Now  you  must  be  at  your  packing. 
Can  you  be  ready  by  Monday?" 

"Monday?  and  I'd  been  wondering  what  would  be 
the  name  of  the  day.  So  it's  merely  Monday?  How 
many  Mondays  there  have  been,  how  many,  many 
Mondays,  that  were  like  any  other  day !  And  now  this 
Monday  steals  up — yes,  I'll  be  ready." 

"I  see  you  are  past  reason " 

"Say  above  it " 

"Anyway,  get  on  with  your  packing.  So  much  is 
true."  He  would  have  ridden  back  with  her,  but  she 
demurred. 

"  It's  so  far,"  he  urged. 

"  It  isn't  half  far  enough,"  she  mocked  him,  "  I  have 
so  much  thinking  to  do!" 

"Monday,  Monday,  Monday,  then!"  he  chanted,  as 
he  went  out  to  lift  her  into  the  saddle.  But  when  he 
had  done  this  he  suddenly  bowed  his  head  to  kiss  her 

69 


Swing's  Lady 


hand,  as  he  had  seen  his  father  long  ago  kiss  his  mother's 
hand. 

"You  are  all  the  world,  just  now,  all  I  know  of  it," 
he  said. 

She  looked  back  to  where  he  stood,  straight  and  buoy- 
ant, his  head  thrown  back  in  joyous  challenge. 

<;And  you  are  youth — dear,  dear  youth!"  she  cried; 
but  this  he  could  not  hear. 

A  little  farther  on  she  breathed  softly,  "Poor  dead 
Kitty— don't  be  afraid!" 


70 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE   JOURNEY   WONDER 

DURING  those  last  days  Ewing  brushed  only  the 
airy  slopes  of  illusion,  strive  as  he  would  to 
keep  his  feet  to  earth.  Many  were  the  tricks 
he  used  to  this  end:  vain  tricks  to  forget  the  miracle  of 
his  going,  of  going  so  soon,  of  going  with  her. 

Ben  Crider  would  not  help  him  forget.  When  snatches 
of  warning  from  "Traps  and  Pitfalls"  grew  stale,  Ben 
coined  advice  of  a  large  and  general  character. 

"Want  to  be  an  artist,  hey?  Ask  me?  Go  down  to 
Durango — let  that  professor  learn  you  in  ten  lessons. 
Make  yer  five  t'  eight  dollars  a  day  canvassin'  fur  en- 
largements. Gold  frame  throwed  in.  Yes,  sir!  Ask 
me?  Durango's  fur  enough.  New  York's  too  gosha- 
mighty  fur!" 

It  was  not  possible  to  forget  under  the  droppings  of 
this  counsel.  Wherefore  his  spirit  tossed  in  tumult. 

When  Ben  called  him  on  the  morning  of  the  start  it 
was  still  dark.  He  lay  a  moment,  his  nerves  tighten- 
ing. This  was  the  last  time  he  would  lie  in  that  bed — 
for  how  long?  Well,  on  some  unmarked  night  in  the 
pregnant  future,  lying  there  again,  he  would  look  back 
to  this  moment  and  tell  himself  all  the  wonderful  things 
that  had  come  to  him — tell  his  ignorant,  puzzled,  excited 
self,  who  would,  somehow,  be  waiting  and  wondering 
there. 

Juggling  this  conceit,  he  groped  for  matches  and  a 

71 


E wing's  Lady 

candle.  He  could  hear  the  singing  of  the  kettle  in  the 
outer  room.  Through  the  window  he  saw  a  lantern 
swinging,  and  knew  that  Ben  would  be  bringing  around 
the  horses.  It  was  a  time  to  be  cool,  a  time  to  gird 
himself. 

He  had  breakfast  on  the  table  when  Ben  came  in, 
and  they  ate  by  the  light  of  a  smoky  lamp,  tacitly  pre- 
tending that  no  miracle  was  afoot.  Saving  the  early 
hour,  it  was  a  scene  they  enacted  whenever  they  drove 
to  Pagosa  for  supplies,  up  to  the  point  when,  the  meal 
finished,  they  carried  two  trunks  from  the  studio  out 
to  the  wagon.  But  they  managed  this  carelessly  enough, 
with  only  a  casual,  indignant  word  or  two  about  the 
excessive  weight  of  full  trunks. 

Only  the  faintest  hint  of  light  showed  in  the  east  as 
the  chilled  horses  stumbled  awkwardly  down  the  hill. 
A  half  hour  they  rode  in  a  silence  broken  but  once,  and 
then  only  by  Ben's  hoarse  threat  to  "learn"  the  off 
horse  something  needful  but  unspecified  which  it  ap- 
peared not  to  know. 

The  light  glowed  from  gray  to  rose  and  day  was 
opened  by  the  bark  of  a  frantic  squirrel  that  ran  half- 
way down  a  tree  trunk,  threatening  attack,  in  alarm 
for  its  store  of  spruce  cones  at  the  foot  of  the  tree.  A 
crested  jay  at  the  same  moment  mocked  them  harshly 
from  a  higher  branch  of  the  tree. 

Bwing  exhaled  with  gusto  a  breath  of  the  warming, 
pine-spiced  air. 

"It's  sunning  up,   Ben."     Ben  grunted  unamiably. 

A  little  distance  ahead  of  them  a  doe  and  a  half- 
grown  fawn  bounded  across  the  road. 

"She  seemed  to  be  in  a  hurry,"  Ewing  again  ventured. 

"She  wanted  t'  git  that  child  away  from  here,  'fore 

72 


The  Journey  Wonder 


some  one  stuffed  its  head  full  o'  fool  talk  about  goin* 
off  to  New  York.  Can't  tell  what  notions  a  young  deer 
might  git."  With  this  laborious  surmise  he  shut  his 
jaws  together  with  repellent  grimness. 

Their  road  now  wound  down  a  hill  and  out  of  the 
woods  to  join  the  valley  road. 

"Vender's  Beulah  Pierce!"  Ben  snapped  this  out 
savagely.  The  wagon  was  half  a  mile  ahead.  Pierce 
was  driving,  and  in  the  rear  seat  were  two  figures  whom 
they  knew  to  be  Mrs.  Laithe  and  her  brother.  As 
Ben  had  pointedly  ignored  these  Ewing  did  not  refer 
to  them. 

They  came  to  a  gate  in  a  wire  fence  that  stretched 
interminably  away  on  either  side,  over  brown,  low- 
rolling  hills.  Pierce  had  left  the  gate  open  for  them, 
and  Ewing  got  out  to  close  it  after  they  had  passed 
through. 

"L,arabie  is  building  a  lot  of  fence,"  he  said,  as  they 
drove  on.  "  At  this  rate  he'll  have  every  school  section 
in  Hinsdale  County  wired  in  pretty  soon." 

On  this  impersonal  ground  Ben  seemed  willing  to 
meet  him. 

"Me?  Know  what  I'm  going  to  do  if  Wes'  Larabie 
cuts  off  any  more  o'  this  road  with  his  barb  wire?  Stick 
a  pair  o'  wire  clippers  in  the  whip  socket  an'  drive 
through.  That's  all!  You'd  think  he  owned  all  Amer- 
ica, the  way  he  makes  people  sidle  along  that  fence 
till  he  gits  good  an'  ready  to  make  a  gate.  Me?  Make 
my  own  gates.  Yes,  sir!  Wire  clippers!" 

With  this  he  was  sufficiently  cheered  to  insult  viva- 
ciously a  couple  of  dull,  incurious  Mexicans  whom  they 
presently  passed,  plodding  behind  a  laden  burro  train. 
To  his  opprobrious  burst  of  weirdly  entangled  Spanish 

6  73 


Ewing's  Lady 


and  English  he  added  the  taunting  bleat  of  a  sheep 
and  a  merrily  malign  gesture  eloquent  of  throats  to 
be  slit — the  throats  of  unspeakable  sheep  herders. 
He  observed  with  deep  disgust  that  neither  of  the 
threatened  ones  gave  any  sign  of  interest  in  their  por- 
tended fate.  They  passed  with  scarce  a  lift  of  their 
heads. 

"They're  takin'  supplies  up  to  that  sheep  outfit  o' 
Raukin's,"  grumbled  Ben.  "Pierce  an'  some  o'  the 
others  is  talkin'  about  gettin'  in  a  car  load  o'  saltpeter 
an'  dopin'  the  range  if  Rankin  lets  his  herd  work  down 
any  closeter — have  it  billed  in  as  hardware  or  pianos, 
an'  unload  the  car  at  night.  Serve  him  right  fur  bein' 
a  sheep  man.  An'  yet  I  knowed  Nels  Rankin,  five, 
six  years  ago,  when  there  wa'n't  a  more  respectable 
cuss  in  the  hull  San  Juan." 

In  passing  the  Pulcifer  ranch  they  made  talk  about 
the  hay-cutting,  for  a  reaper  sent  its  locustlike  click 
from  a  brown  stretch  of  bottom  land.  Pulcifer  had  a 
good  stand  of  hay,  they  agreed,  and  probably  he  wouldn't 
have  such  a  big  winter  kill  this  year  if  he  didn't  act 
the  fool  and  sell  off  too  much  of  it.  You  couldn't 
expect  to  bring  cattle  through  fat  on  cottonwood 
browse. 

So  they  lamely  gossiped  the  miles  away  in  strained 
avoidance  of  the  big  event.  Only  once  did  Ewing 
look  back,  while  Ben  was  occupied  with  the  horses  at  a 
ford.  The  rocky  wall  at  the  verge  of  their  lake  was 
intimately  near,  despite  the  miles  they  had  come, 
and  below  it,  through  a  notch  in  the  hills,  he  could 
see  a  spot  of  yellow — the  new  shake  roof  on  a  shed  they 
had  built  that  summer  near  the  cabin.  Then  his  eyes 
were  ahead  to  where  Pierce 's  wagon  crawled  up  a  hill. 

74 


The  Journey  Wonder 


Ben  whipped  up  the  horses  and  burst  into  song: 

"One  evening  I  was  strolling  through  the  city  of  the  dead; 
I  viewed  where  all  around  me  their  peaceful  forms  were  spread." 

He  took  the  thing  at  a  quick,  rollicking  tempo,  as  one 
resolved  to  be  gay  under  difficulties. 

When  they  drew  up  to  the  station  platform  at  Pagosa, 
Ewing  hurried  to  greet  Mrs.  Laithe  and  her  brother. 
Pierce  busied  himself  with  the  trunks,  cautiously 
watching  the  man  check  them. 

Ben  Crider,  after  a  long,  fervent  look  at  Ewing's 
back,  caught  his  breath,  sniffled,  strangled  this,  and 
stepped  quickly  into  his  wagon.  Pulling  the  horses 
quietly  away  from  the  platform  he  whipped  them  into 
a  sharp  trot  toward  the  town.  Ewing  ran  back,  shout- 
ing. Ben  would  not  turn,  but  he  thrust  one  arm  back 
and  upward  with  a  careless  wave. 

Ewing  stared  hard  at  the  bent  head,  the  eloquent 
back,  longing  for  a  further  sign,  but  none  came.  He 
was  at  the  gateway  of  the  world,  a  mist  before  his  eyes. 

A  moment  later  their  little  train  rattled  into  a  narrow 
canon  where  its  shrill  whistle,  battered  from  wall  to  wall, 
made  the  place  alive  with  shrieking  demons. 

Having  seen  his  charge  to  a  seat  in  the  one  squalid 
car,  Ewing  went  out  to  brace  himself  on  the  rear  plat- 
form. She  who  was  doing  this  thing  had  seemed  a 
strange  lady  again;  in  her  manner,  as  in  her  dress,  more 
formal.  The  dark-blue,  close-fitting  gown,  the  small 
toque  of  blue  velvet,  the  secretive  veil,  the  newish 
gloves,  instead  of  the  old,  worn  riding  gauntlets,  the 
glossy-toed  black  boots  so  different  from  those  of  scarred 
tan  he  knew,  all  marked  a  change  that  heightened  the 
pangs  of  homesickness  he  already  suffered. 

With  burning  eyes  and  tightened  throat  he  saw  the 

75 


Ewing's  Lady 

floor  of  the  canon  rush  away  from  him,  and  watched 
old  Baldy's  snow  hood  flashing  momentarily  as  the  train 
twisted,  now  sinking  below  a  quick-rushing  wall  of 
rock,  now  showing  over  a  clump  of  cedars.  It  was 
as  if  the  old  peak  had  become  sprightly  at  his  going, 
and  sought  to  bob  curtsies  to  him. 

At  intervals  the  train  came  to  a  jangling  halt.  The 
little  locomotive  would  leave  it  and  ramble  incon- 
sequently  off  into  the  big  pine  woods,  to  return  with 
screeches  of  triumph,  dragging  a  car  load  of  new-sawn 
boards  from  the  mill.  Or  it  would  puff  away  to  a  siding 
and  come  back  importantly  with  a  car  of  excited  sheep. 
At  these  halts  Ewing  would  leap  to  the  ground  to  feel 
the  San  Juan  earth  under  his  feet. 

At  the  junction  where  they  were  to  take  the  through 
train  he  reflected  that  nothing  had  really  happened  yet. 
He  could  turn  back  and  be  out  of  the  dream.  The 
little  train  would  return  up  the  canon  presently.  The 
conductor  would  be  indifferent  to  his  presence.  To 
the  brakeman,  whom  he  knew,  he  could  say,  "Yes, 
I  thought  some  of  going  to  New  York  this  morning, 
but  I  changed  my  mind."  He  would  be  back  at  Pagosa 
by  five  and  find  Ben  at  the  post  office  or  the  "  Happy 
Days"  saloon.  Then  there  would  be  no  more  of  that 
curious  sickness — a  kind  of  sickish  wanting.  Yet, 
when  the  through  train  drew  in,  he  hurried  aboard. 

He  stood  on  the  rear  platform  and  watched  a  horse- 
man jogging  over  the  sandy  plain  to  the  west,  picturing 
his  ride  from  the  junction  to  some  lonely  ranch  on  a 
distant  river  bottom.  He  would  have  the  week's 
mail  in  a  bag  back  of  the  saddle,  and  a  stock  of  tobacco. 
He  would  reach  the  place  after  dark,  perhaps,  from 
sheer  ennui,  shooting  at  a  coyote  or  two  along  the  way. 

76 


The  Journey  Wonder 


He  knew  that  rider's  life,  the  days  of  it  and  the  nights, 
and  all  of  good  or  ill  that  might  ever  betake  him.  It 
was  well,  he  thought,  to  dare  a  bigger  life,  though  he 
waved  a  friendly  greeting  to  the  unconscious  horse- 
man, jogging  at  the  head  of  his  train  of  dust.  He  flung 
a  tender  glance  at  the  diminished  junction,  now  a  low, 
dull  blur  on  the  level  horizon,  and  went  into  the  car. 

For  the  moment  the  Pullman  had  no  other  occupant 
but  himself  and  Mrs.  Laithe,  and  she  was  sleeping,  he 
thought;  but  her  eyes  opened  as  he  would  have  passed 
her  seat.  She  had  replaced  the  toque  with  a  brown 
cap  he  knew,  and  as  she  smiled  up  at  him  she  seemed 
again  almost  the  familiar  godmother  of  his  fairy  tale. 
He  passed  on,  however,  after  a  meaningless  word  or 
two  and,  sprawling  in  another  section,  surrendered 
himself  to  the  troubled  pretentiousness  of  the  Pullman 
school  of  decoration. 

He  had  left  the  lady  grateful  for  his  going.  She  was 
in  no  mood  for  that  artless  lyric  chant  of  youth  in  which 
he  was  so  adept.  Her  brother  that  morning  had  accused 
her  of  waning  enthusiasm  for  her  protege. 

"  I  believe  you're  funking,  Nell,"  he  had  said  shrewdly. 
"  You're  discovering  that  mountain  slumming  is  different 
from  the  city  kind." 

But  she  had  protested  that  no  discerning  person  of 
ordinary  humanity  could  have  done  less  for  the  prisoned 
youth.  "Of  course" — and  she  had  sighed — "he's  a 
mere  bundle  of  untried  eagerness,  and  we're  responsible, 
in  a  way,  for  Heaven  knows  what,  but  we  had  to  do  it, 
didn't  we?" 

"  Not  'we'  had  to !  You  had  to.  It's  all  yours,  Nell — 
the  credit  and  the  glory  and  all  the  rest.  I  prefer  to 
get  up  my  own  responsibilities,  if  you  don't  mind." 

77 


Ewing's  Lady 

"  But  you  agreed  with  me — you  did — you  advised  when 
I  asked  you — it's  perfectly  plain — you  said,  'Of  course!'  ' 
— But  the  train  moved  off  in  the  midst  of  his  laugh  at 
this,  and  he  had  doffed  his  hat  to  her  with  a  mocking 
gesture  of  freehanded  relinquishment. 

Now,  as  she  closed  her  eyes  again,  her  memory  dived 
for  some  fairy  tale  or  fragment  of  mythology  in  which 
an  unsuspecting  humanitarian  rescued  an  insignificant 
woods  thing,  only  to  have  it  change  on  the  instant  into 
a  creature  troublesome  in  more  ways  than  one.  She 
was  certain  some  primitive  fabulist  had  foreseen  this 
complication,  but  her  mind  was  weary  and  shadowed, 
and  the  historic  solution  evaded  her.  "Mountain 
slumming"  was  truly  more  exigent  than  the  town  sort. 

But  this  reflection  aroused  a  defensive  sympathy. 
The  vision  of  Ewing  as  he  had  passed  glowed  before  her 
shut  eyes,  the  active,  square-shouldered,  slender  figure, 
garbed  in  a  decently  fitting  suit  of  gray  (she  was  glad 
to  remember  that),  the  quick  eyes,  ardent  for  life,  the 
thinned,  brown  face,  the  usual  buoyance  held  down 
to  an  easy  self-possession  that  was  new  to  her,  the 
wild,  reliant  expectancy  of  a  boy  tempered  all  at  once 
by  some  heritage  of  insight.  Outwardly,  at  least, 
he  would  fit  his  new  life.  So  reflecting,  she  dozed 
on  the  look  of  the  man  in  his  eyes,  and  dreamed  that 
she  feared  this  and  fled.  But  after  mad  flight  through 
the  windings  of  an  interminable  corridor  she  awoke 
to  look  squarely  into  his  eyes,  to  cower  instinctively 
under  his  touch  on  her  arm.  Her  waking  thought 
took  the  thread  of  the  dream,  her  flight  had  been  vain : 
he  was  there,  and  his  voice  throbbed  fatefully  within 
a  secret  chamber  of  her  mind,  even  though  his  words 
rang  little  of  portent. 

78 


The  Journey  Wonder 


"We  are  coming  to  the  supper  station." 

She  hastened  to  freshen  herself  with  cold  water,  and 
they  were  presently  eating  a  hasty  meal  at  a  crowded 
table.  Then  they  were  out  side  by  side  to  pace  the 
platform  briskly. 

There  was  green  about  the  station,  where  water  had 
taught  the  desert  to  relent,  but  beyond  this  oasis  the 
sand  sea  stretched  far  and  flat  to  murky  foothills. 
Above  these  they  could  see  a  range  of  sharp-peaked 
mountains  that  still  caught  the  sunlight,  some  crystal 
white  with  snow,  others  muffled  by  clouds  turned  to 
iris-hued  scarfs  of  filmiest  gauze. 

"El  Dorado  is  beyond  those  hills,"  said  the  youth 
fervently. 

"It  looks  accessible  from  here,"  she  answered, 
"but " 

"You're  warning  me  again.  You're  afraid  I'll  be 
discouraged  by  the  hills." 

"  Not  discouraged,  but  there  are  resting  places  on  the 
way.  They  hold  the  bulk  of  the  pilgrims,  I  fear." 

"  I  shall  go  on;  not  even  you  could  stop  me." 

She  caught  a  glint  in  his  fierce  young  eyes  that  she 
thought  he  must  be  unconscious  of. 

"I?  Oh,  I  shall  spur  you — if  you  need  spurring." 

"I  know;  I'm  only  beginning  to  realize  how  much 
I  owe  you;  I  mean  to  repay  you,  though." 

There  was  an  intimation  of  remoteness  in  his  tone, 
as  if  he  saw  himself  removed  from  her,  mounting  soli- 
tary to  his  dream  city,  a  free-necked,  well-weaponed 
pilgrim,  sufficient  unto  himself.  It  was  as  if  he  had 
put  distance  between  them  the  moment  he  crossed  the 
threshold  of  the  world.  She  drew  a  full  breath.  It 
came  to  her,  as  the  upflashing  of  some  submerged 

79 


Ewing's  Lady 

memory,  that  all  his  frank  adoration  of  her  had  been 
quite  impersonal.  He  had  regarded  her  as  a  bit  of 
line  and  color.  It  was  amazing  to  remember  that  he 
had  made  no  effort  to  know  her,  save  with  his  eyes. 
She  divined  that  she  had  stopped  short  of  being  human 
to  him,  while  he  to  her  had  been,  more  than  anything 
else,  a  human  creature  of  freshness  and  surprises.  What- 
ever difficulties  might  be  in  the  way  of  an  easy  friend- 
liness between  them,  they  would  not  be  of  his  own 
making.  She  was  sure  she  felt  a  great  relief. 

Ewing  awoke  in  the  night  at  some  jolting  halt  of  the 
train,  to  feel  an  exciting  thrill  of  luxury  as  he  stretched 
in  his  berth.  Here  was  no  stumbling  about  in  the 
dark  to  search  for  a  lost  trail;  nor  must  he  rise  in  the 
chill  dawn  to  worry  a  blaze  from  overnight  embers, 
cook  a  discouraging  breakfast,  catch  horses,  and  lade 
unwilling  beasts  with  packs.  Things  would  be  done 
for  him;  and  the  trail  was  wide  and  level  as  befits  the 
approach  to  the  world.  He  dozed  royally  off  feeling 
that  he  had  bitten  into  the  heart  of  his  wonder  at  last. 

The  following  day  they  sped  through  a  land  whose 
kind  he  knew,  but  after  another  night  he  awoke  to 
find  their  train  breasting  the  brown  waves  of  a  sea 
that  rolled  lazily  to  far  horizons.  No  longer  was  there 
one  of  his  beloved  mountain  peaks  to  be  a  landmark: 
only  an  endless,  curving  lowness,  as  of  land  that  had 
once  tried  to  lash  itself  into  the  fury  of  mountain  and 
crag,  and  then  ceased  all  effort — to  lie  forever  impotent 
and  sad. 

He  thought  of  Ben  amid  this  disconsolate  welter. 
Ben  had  beheld  this  sight  years  ago,  and  had  described 
it  with  aversion,  as  one  relating  a  topographical  scandal. 
Ewing  favored  his  companion  with  heartfelt  dispraise 

80 


The  Journey  Wonder 


of  this  landscape,  applauding  the  suggestion  of  a  woman 
she  laughingly  quoted  that  "there  should  be  a  tuck 
taken  in  the  continent."  He  was  sure  nothing  would 
be  lost  by  it. 

The  lady  beguiled  him  over  the  inadequacies  of 
Kansas  by  promising  a  better  land  farther  on.  He 
gladly  turned  from  the  car  window  to  watch  the  pretty 
play  of  her  mouth  as  she  talked. 

But  the  next  day — they  steamed  out  of  St.  Louis  in 
the  morning — he  scanned  several  hundred  square 
miles  of  excellent  farming  land  with  sheer  dismay. 
From  morning  till  night  they  ran  through  what,  to 
Ewing,  was  a  dead,  depressing  flatness,  a  vast  and 
clumsy  jest  of  a  checkerboard,  with  cornfields  for  squares. 
The  tiny  groves  of  oak  at  long  intervals  seemed  only 
to  satirize  the  monotony.  The  rolling  plains  of  the 
day  before  had  been  vivacious  beside  this  flatness, 
and  there  had  been  a  certain  mournful  dignity  in  their 
solitude.  But  this  endless  level  lacked  even  solitude. 
To  Ewing,  indeed,  the  mystery  of  it  lay  in  its  well- 
peopled  towns.  He  wondered  how  men  kept  sane 
there.  Mrs.  Laithe  insisted  that  it  was  an  important 
stretch  of  our  country,  that  it  fed  thousands  and  made 
useful  objects  in  its  tall-chimneyed  factories  (things 
like  wagons  and  watches  and  boots,  she  believed),  and 
that  it  ought  not  to  be  discountenanced.  But  he 
could  feel  nothing  for  it,  save  an  unconfessed  pity 
that  it  would  sleep  that  night  in  ignorance  of  his  glorious 
transit.  He  had  never  suspected  there  could  be  so 
many  thousands  of  people  who  took  the  world  as  a 
tame  affair  and  slept  indifferent  to  young  men  with 
great  things  before  them. 

"If  New  York  is  like  this,"  he  said,  with  a  flash  of 

81 


E wing's  Lady 


his  old  boyish  excitement,  "  what  can  I  ever  do  without 
you?" 

"  But  it  isn't  at  all  like  this,  and  you'll  do  big  things 
without  me — or  with  me,  if  I  can  help  you." 

"You  will  have  to  help  me.  Now  that  I've  seen  the 
beginning  of  the  world,  I'm  depending  on  you  more 
than  I  thought  I  should  when  we  started." 

"You  will  lose  that." 

"Will  I?  But  it  will  be  queer  to  see  you  as  part 
of  the  world — no  longer  the  whole  of  it ;  to  see  how  you 
stand  out  from  the  others.  Perhaps  the  rest  of  the 
world  will  be  only  a  dingy  background  for  you — you 
are  all  color  and  life." 

"You've  made  me  feel  like  a  lay  figure,"  she  laughed. 
Then,  in  a  flash  of  womanish  curiosity,  she  ventured, 
"  Have  you  ever  thought  me  anything  but  a  shell  of 
color?" 

He  stammered,  blushing  painfully. 

"Oh,  a  real  person — of  course,  certainly!  A  woman, 
yes — but  when  I  think  of  you  as  a  woman,  I'm  scared, 
like  those  first  times  I  saw  you.  I  can't  help  it.  You 
may  not  believe  it,"  he  concluded  with  a  burst  of  can- 
dor, "but  the  truth  is,  I  don't  know  women." 

He  was  again  embarrassed  when  she  retorted,  with 
her  laugh: 

"O  youth!     May  you  always  know  so  much!" 

"Well,  to-morrow  afternoon  we  shall  be  in  New 
York,"  he  said  briskly,  when  she  had  shut  the  deeps 
of  her  eyes  from  him.  He  had  felt  the  need  to  show 
that  there  were  matters  upon  which  he  could  speak 
with  understanding. 


82 


CHAPTER  IX 

A   DINNER   AT   SEVEN-THIRTY 

BY  five  o'clock  the  next  afternoon  Ewing  had 
ended  his  journey  in  an  upper  room  of  the 
Stuyvesant  Hotel.  This  hostelry  flaunts  an 
outworn  magnificence.  Its  hangings  are  dingy,  its 
plenteous  gilt  is  tarnished;  and  it  seems  to  live  on 
memories  of  a  past  when  fashion  splendidly  thronged 
its  corridors.  But  peace  lies  beyond  the  gloom  of 
its  portals,  and  Ewing  was  glad  to  be  housed  from  the 
dazing  tumult  outside.  Nothing  reached  him  now 
but  the  muted  rhythm  of  horses'  feet  on  the  asphalt 
below,  and  this  but  recalled  agreeably  to  him  that  his 
solitude  was  an  artificial  thing  of  four  walls.  He  had 
no  wish  to  forget  that  the  world  waited  beyond  his  door. 

He  fell  back  on  the  sofa,  a  once  lordly  thing  of  yellow 
satin,  now  frayed  and  faded,  to  eye  the  upper  reaches 
of  the  room.  The  high,  blue-tinted  ceiling  was  scarred 
and  cracked.  Depending  from  its  center  a  huge  chande- 
lier dangled  glittering  prisms  of  glass.  An  immense 
mirror  in  a  gilt  frame,  lavishly  rococo,  rested  on  the 
mantel  of  carved  white  marble.  Heavy  lace  curtains, 
shrouding  the  two  broad  windows,  made  a  restful 
half  light. 

He  had  awakened  to  hills  that  morning,  wooded  hills 
and  well  towned.  Then  had  come  veritable  cities,  rich 
to  him  with  all  romance  under  their  angular,  smoky 
ugliness.  And  at  last  had  come  the  real  city — the  end 

83 


Ewing's  Lady 


of  the  world  and  its  center.  He  discovered  it  beyond 
a  stretch  of  white-flecked  water  alive  with  strange 
craft.  Its  clean,  straight,  myriad-windowed  towers 
glowed  under  a  slanting  sun  in  an  air  as  crystal  clear  as 
that  of  his  own  hills.  A  vista  of  heartshaking  surprises 
unfolded  ahead  of  the  great  boat  they  boarded,  a  boat 
with  a  heart  strongly  beating  in  tune  with  his  own. 
Too  soon  it  nosed  its  way,  with  a  sort  of  clumsy  finesse, 
into  a  pile-walled  pocket.  There  followed  the  keen, 
quick  rattling  of  a  cogged  wheel  and  a  rush  of  people 
who  seemed  insufficiently  impressed  by  the  magnitude 
of  the  event.  Then  they  entered  a  cab,  to  be  driven 
from  a  throng  of  other  cabs  and  jostling  pedestrians 
through  the  maze  of  a  dream  come  true.  He  tried  not 
to  ignore  his  companion  for  glimpses  of  that  strange 
life  through  the  cab  window. 

Very  casually  she  had  said  at  parting,  "Thank  you  so 
much  for  all  your  care  of  me — and  dine  with  us  at 
seven-thirty,  won't  you?  I  shall  try  to  have  a  friend 
here  that  I  think  may  help  you." 

A  long  time  he  lay,  reviewing  that  chaotic  first  hour 
in  the  world.  Everything  throbbed  here,  it  seemed. 
One  lived  more  quickly.  And  how  long  could  the  body 
endure  it?  Suddenly  he  felt  his  own  pulses  beating  at 
a  rate  to  terrify.  He  caught  his  breath  and  listened. 
He  could  hear  the  monstrous  beats — they  were  actually 
shaking  the  sofa  on  which  he  lay.  He  thought  of  heart 
disease.  He  might  be  dying  there — and  they  would 
wait  dinner  for  him.  He  sprang  up  desperately.  The 
sinister  beating  ceased.  He  put  his  hand  to  his  heart, 
listened  tensely,  and  heard  again  that  which  had  alarmed 
him,  the  pulsing  beat  of  a  steam  pump  somewhere 
far  below.  In  his  relief  he  laughed  aloud. 

84 


A  Dinner  at  Seven-Thirty 

As  he  set  about  opening  his  trunks  he  was  marveling 
at  clothes  lines  he  had  seen  stretched  high  between  the 
rear  walls  of  houses.  How  did  people  ever  hang  clothes 
on  lines  fifty  feet  from  the  ground?  Truly  it  was  a 
city  of  wonders. 

He  took  out  a  suit  of  evening  clothes  that  had  been 
his  father's.  He  had  found  that  the  suit  fitted  him, 
and  he  and  Ben  had  assured  themselves  by  reference  to 
the  pictured  heroes  in  magazine  advertisements  that  its 
cut  was  nearly  enough  in  the  prevailing  mode.  Ewing 
had  also  found  some  cards  of  his  father's  which  would 
convey  his  own  name  to  all  who  might  care  to 
read  it. 

As  he  sauntered  out  at  the  dinner  hour  he  wished  that 
Ben  could  be  watching  him.  The  Bartell  house  was  in 
Ninth  Street,  less  than  a  long  block  from  his  hotel,  a 
broad,  plain-fronted,  three-story  house  of  red  brick 
trimmed  with  white  marble.  Caught  in  a  little  eddy  from 
the  stream  heading  in  Washington  Square  and  sweep- 
ing north,  it  had  kept  an  old-time  air  of  dignity  and 
comfort.  Ewing  observed  a  cheering  glow  through  the 
muslin  curtains  at  the  windows  as  he  ascended  the  three 
marble  steps.  The  old  white  door,  crowned  with  a 
fanlight  and  retaining  its  brass  knocker,  had  suffered 
the  indignity  of  an  electric  bell,  but  this  was  obscurely 
placed  at  the  side,  and  he  lifted  the  knocker's  lion  head. 
As  no  bell  rang,  he  dropped  it,  and  was  dismayed  by  its 
metallic  clamor.  He  swiftly  meditated  flight,  thinking 
to  return  for  a  seemlier  demonstration.  But  the  door 
swung  back  and  a  person  in  evening  dress  stood  aside 
to  bow  him  in. 

"Ah,  good  evening!"  exclaimed  Ewing  cordially. 
Then,  embarrassed,  he  felt  for  a  card,  recalling  that  he 

85 


Ewing's  Lady 

was  in  a  land  where,  probably,  one  could  not  be  cordial 
to  persons  who  opened  doors. 

"For  Mrs.  Laithe,"  he  said,  in  grave  tones,  eying  the 
man's  bluntly  cut  features  with  a  severity  meant  to 
dispel  any  wrong  impression.  The  person  received 
the  card  on  a  tiny  silver  plate,  relieved  him  of  hat  and 
coat  with  what  seemed  to  Ewing  an  uncanny  deftness, 
bowed  him  to  the  gloom  of  a  large  apartment  on  the 
left,  and  vanished.  An  instant  later  he  reappeared, 
drew  portieres  aside,  revealing  another  warmly  lighted 
room,  and  Ewing  beheld  a  white  vision  of  his  hostess. 

"  I'm  glad  to  have  a  word  with  you,"  she  began.  "  Sit 
here.  You're  to  meet  a  friend,  Ned  Piersoll,  who  will  tell 
you  a  lot  of  things.  I  telephoned  him  directly  I  came  in, 
and  he  found  he  could  come,  though  he  must  run  when 
he's  eaten — some  affair  with  his  mother.  But  he'll 
have  found  out  about  you." 

"I'm  much  obliged  to  you,"  he  stammered,  having 
caught  little  of  her  speech. 

"  Ned  will  tell  you  what  to  do.  He  knows  everybody. 
He's  on  the  staff  of  the  Knickerbocker  magazine,  and  he 
had  a  novel  out  last  spring,  'The  Promotion  of  Fools,' 
that  you  must  have  seen  advertised  everywhere,  like 
a  medicine." 

"Yes,  I've  read  that  book." 

"You  must  tell  him  if  you  liked  it — they  all  care  to 
hear  that — and  he'll  see  that  you  meet  men  of  your  own 
kind."  For  looking  at  her  he  had  been  able  to  give  her 
words  little  attention.  She  had  revealed  herself  anew 
in  the  dull  white  of  a  gown  that  brought  out  the  elusive 
glow  of  her  face.  Her  eyes  were  deep  wells,  shaded 
but  luminous,  under  the  lusterless  dark  of  her  hair,  and 
her  smile  flashed  a  girlish  benignity  upon  him.  Acutely 

86 


A  Dinner  at  Seven-Thirty 

alive  was  he  to  the  line  of  neck  and  shoulder  and  arm, 
a  slender,  supple  neck,  set  on  shoulders  superbly  but 
lightly  modeled,  the  small  collarbone  exquisitely  muffled 
but  not  lost,  and  the  little  hollow  at  the  base  of  her 
throat  prettily  definite.  And  all  was  white  and  luster- 
less  save  the  warning  dusk  of  her  eyes  and  the  flash 
from  her  parting  lips. 

With  such  cold  passion  for  line  did  his  artist's  eye 
wreak  its  joy  upon  her  that,  as  she  talked,  she  found 
herself  thinking  him  curiously  dull  to  the  prospect  she 
opened.  It  was  the  impersonal  look  she  had  come  to 
know;  and  his  replies  were  languid,  as  if  he  thought  of 
other  matters.  It  might  have  passed  for  the  bored  ease 
of  a  man  of  the  world  had  she  not  known  him  to  be 
amid  novel  surroundings. 

Feeling  a  slight  discomfort  under  his  look,  she  at 
length  diverted  his  eyes  to  the  room  in  which  they 
sat. 

"It's  the  room  I  like  best  in  all  the  house,"  she  said. 
''That  big  drawing  room  you  came  through  is  inhuman. 
It  terrified  me  as  a  child,  and  still  refuses  to  make  friends 
with  me,  but  this  library — don't  you  feel  that  I've 
humanized  it?" 

He  became  aware  that  he  had  felt  its  easing  charm 
of  dark-toned  wood  and  dull-red  walls.  There  were 
low  book-shelves,  low  seats  that  invited,  a  broad  table 
with  its  array  of  magazines,  and  a  lazy  fire  in  the  open 
grate. 

"It's  a  fine  room  to  be  in,"  he  said,  bringing  his  eyes 
back  to  her. 

"There's  not  a  chair  in  it,"  she  continued,  "that 
wasn't  meant  to  be  sat  in — most  chairs  nowadays  are 
mere  spectacles,  you  know — and  no  glass  doors  before 

87 


Ewing's  Lady 


the  books.  Nothing  enrages  me  like  having  to  open  a 
door  to  get  at  books." 

"It's  the  room  you  need,"  he  replied.  "You  draw 
all  the  light  to  yourself.  It  gives  you  color,  turns  your 
hair  to  black,  and  makes  your  eyes  look  like " 

"Mr.  Piersoll!"  announced  the  man. 

His  look  still  engaged  her  as  she  floated  forward  to 
greet  the  tall,  pleasant -faced,  alert  young  man  with 
tumbled  yellow  hair  who  now  entered.  Not  until  he 
heard  his  own  name  did  he  relinquish  her  to  acknowledge 
the  word  of  introduction. 

A  moment  later  the  father  of  Mrs.  Laithe  strolled 
in  and  Ewing  was  again  introduced,  this  time  to  a  stout- 
ish  man  with  a  placid,  pink  face,  scanty  hair  going  from 
yellow  to  white — arranged  over  his  brow  with  scrupu- 
lous economy — and  a  closely  cut  mustache  of  the  same 
ambiguous  hue.  He  was  a  man  who  gracefully  con- 
fessed fifty  years  to  all  but  the  better  informed.  Ewing 
felt  himself  under  the  scrutiny  of  a  pair  of  very  light 
gray  eyes  as  Bartell  took  his  hand,  tentatively  at  first, 
then  with  a  grip  of  entire  cordiality.  One  may  suspect 
that  this  gentleman  had  looked  forward  with  mild  ap- 
prehension to  a  dinner  meeting  with  the  latest  protege" 
of  his  impulsive  daughter.  The  youth's  demeanor,  how- 
ever, so  quickly  caused  his  barbaric  past  to  be  forgotten 
that,  by  the  time  they  were  at  table,  his  host  had  said  to 
him,  prefacing  one  of  his  best  anecdotes,  "Of  course  you 
know  that  corner  table  on  the  Caf£  de  la  Paix  ter- 
race. ..." 

Ewing  floated  dreamily  on  the  stream  of  talk;  laugh- 
ing, chatty  talk,  spiced  with  suggestive  strange  names; 
blithe  gossip  of  random  happenings.  He  was  content 
to  feel  its  flow  beneath  him  and  rather  resented  the 

88 


A  Dinner  at  Seven-Thirty 

efforts  to  involve  him  in  it,  preferring  to  listen  and  to 
look.  But  he  was  courteously  groped  for  by  the  others 
and  compelled  to  response  as  the  dinner  progressed. 

Piersoll  mentioned  his  drawings  pleasantly  and 
engaged  him  for  dinner  at  a  club  the  following  evening. 
"  I'll  call  for  you  at  the  Stuyvesant  about  six,"  he  said, 
when  Ewing  had  accepted.  "I  must  have  a  look  at 
your  stuff.  Don't  dress;  we  dine  in  our  working  clothes 
at  the  Monastery." 

The  father  of  Mrs.  Laithe  warned  Ewing  to  beware  of 
worry  in  his  new  surroundings. 

"Let  life  carry  you,  my  boy.  That's  my  physiology 
in  a  nutshell.  Don't  try  to  lug  the  world  about.  The 
people  who  tell  you  that  life  in  New  York  is  a  strain 
haven't  learned  rational  living.  Worry  kills,  but  I 
never  worry,  and  I  find  town  idyllic.  Clarence  was 
born  to  worry:  result,  dyspepsia  and  nervous  break- 
down. My  daughter  worries.  She  goes  into  side  streets 
looking  for  trouble,  and  when  she  finds  it  she  keeps 
it.  That's  wrong.  Life  is  whatever  we  see  it  to  be. 
Eleanor  sees  too  much  of  the  black  side,  poverty,  starva- 
tion, hard  luck — all  kinds  of  deviltry,  and  it  reacts  on 
her.  I  look  only  on  the  cheerful  side,  and  that  reacts 
on  me.  A  good  dinner,  a  glass  of  burgundy — there's 
an  answer  to  all  that  socialistic  pessimism." 

"Suppose  one  hasn't  the  answer  at  hand?"  his  daugh- 
ter broke  in. 

"Keep  smiling,  my  dear,"  retorted  her  father  with 
Spartan  grimness.  "  Skipping  a  dinner  or  two  can't  over- 
turn real  philosophy.  Down  on  the  Chesapeake  last 
fall,  duck  shooting  one  day,  we  lost  the  luncheon  hamper 
overboard,  and  hadn't  so  much  as  a  biscuit  from  four 
in  the  morning  till  after  nine  at  night,  shooting  from 

7  89 


Ewing's  Lady 

a  chilly,  wet  blind  all  day.  There  was  a  test!  But 
I  give  you  my  word  I  never  worried.  I  took  it  as  so 
much  discipline.  My  dear,  if  I  had  fretted  over  tene- 
ment houses  the  way  you  have,  I  should  be  a  broken 
man.  Thank  the  gods  that  be,  I've  had  the  wit  to  let 
my  agent  do  all  that!" 

His  daughter  received  this  with  a  shrug  of  despair. 
"But  confess,  daddy — you  have  a  worry." 

'"Oh,  that  this  too,  too  solid  flesh  would  melt!'" 
quoted  Piersoll,  divining  her  mark. 

"  I  admit,  my  dear,  that  legitimate  worry  has  its  uses. 
I  only  warn  against  the  too  common  abuse  of  it.  I 
maintain,"  he  went  on,  turning  to  Ewing,  "that  a  man 
with  the  feelings  of  a  boy  should,  if  there's  any  moral 
balance  in  the  world,  retain  the  waistline  of  a  boy;  yet 
I've  not  done  it.  I  go  to  doctors — they  all  talk  the  same 
ballyrot  about  exercise  or  they  harangue  you  about  diet. 
Why,  I've  heard  them  gibber  of  things  one  mustn't  eat 
till  I  writhed  in  anguish.  Some  day  I  know  I  shall 
chuck  it  all  and  let  Nature  take  her  course."  He  glared 
defiantly  about  the  table. 

"  She's  not  waiting  for  you  to  let  her,  dear,"  observed 
his  daughter  maliciously. 

"It's  my  temperament,  I  suppose" — he  sighed  rue- 
fully into  his  plate  of  sweet  stuff — "just  as  it's  Randy 
Teevan's  temperament  to  keep  slender,  though  I  sus- 
pect Randy  of  stays." 

Mrs.  Laithe  had  glanced  swiftly  toward  Ewing  at  the 
mention  of  this  name.  She  again  looked  at  him  alertly 
a  moment  later  when  the  man  announced  "  Mr.  Teevan 
and  Mr.  Alden  Teevan." 

"Alden  told  me  this  afternoon  at  the  club,  my  dear, 
that  he  and  his  father  might  stop  for  a  moment  on  their 

90 


A  Dinner  at  Seven-Thirty 

way  up  town,  just  to  say  'How-de-do.'  We  can  have 
coffee  in  the  library." 

His  daughter  received  this  with  a  meditative  under 
lip.  Then  she  brightened. 

"I'm  sure  you  men  would  rather  sit  here  and  smoke 
while  I  run  in  and  see  them.  They'll  stay  only  a 
minute." 

"Nonsense,  child!  I  can't  lose  sight  of  you  so  soon 
again.  We  can  smoke  in  there  as  well." 

"Coffee  in  the  library,  Harris."  She  gave  the  order 
with  a  submissive  shrug  and  led  the  way  out. 

Ewing  saw  two  men  come  to  greet  her,  alike  enough  of 
feature  to  reveal  their  relationship  at  first  glance.  He 
detected,  however,  a  curious  contrast  they  presented. 
The  father,  slight  and  short  of  stature,  was  a  very  young- 
looking  old  man,  while  the  son  was  an  old-looking  young 
man.  The  father  was  dapper,  effusive,  sprightly,  quick 
with  smiling  gestures;  the  son  restrained,  deliberate,  low- 
toned  with  a  slow,  half -cynical  smile  of  waiting.  He 
gave  the  effect  of  subduing  what  his  father  almost  elf- 
ishly  expressed. 

Father  and  son  greeted  the  men  over  the  shoulders  of 
Mrs.  Laithe,  and  Ewing  was  presented.  There  was  an 
inclination  of  the  son's  head,  and  a  careless  glance  of  his 
waiting  eyes;  from  the  father,  a  jerky,  absent  "How- 
d'you  do — How-d'you  do!" 

They  moved  by  chatting  stages  to  the  library.  The 
elder  Teevan,  carefully  pointing  the  ends  of  his  small, 
dark  mustache,  stood  with  his  back  to  the  dying  fire, 
a  coffee  cup  in  one  hand,  a  cigarette  in  the  other,  twitter- 
ing gallantly  of  a  town's  desolation  wrought  by  the  going 
away  of  Mrs.  Laithe;  and  of  a  town  renewed  by  her 
great-hearted  return.  "A  preciously  timed  relenting," 


Ewing's  Lady 

he  called  it,  with  a  challenging  sigh  toward  the  lady,  as 
he  gracefully  flicked  back  a  ringlet  of  the  lustrous  brown 
hair  that  had  fallen  low  on  his  brow.  Ewing  thought 
it  wonderful  hair  on  a  man  whose  face,  though  ruddy 
in  hue,  showed  signs  of  age.  There  were  deep  lines  at 
the  corners  of  those  gallantly  flashing  eyes,  and  their 
under  lids  drooped.  The  skin  was  shrunk  tightly  over 
the  high,  thin  nose,  the  cheeks  were  less  than  plump, 
and  the  neck  revealed  some  unhappy  wrinkles.  Sadly, 
too,  his  voice  failed  at  supreme  moments.  It  was  tragic, 
Ewing  thought,  to  listen  to  a  sentence  valiantly  begun, 
only  to  hear  the  voice  crack  on  a  crucial  word. 

Mrs.  Laithe  received  the  little  man's  tribute  with  a 
practiced  indifference,  chatting  absently,  meanwhile, 
with  the  son.  Presently  she  led  Ewing  and  the  younger 
Teevan  to  the  drawing  room  to  admire  a  huge  jar  of 
roses  for  which  she  thanked  Teevan. 

Back  in  the  library  Piersoll  was  listening  to  a  salmon- 
fishing  story  of  BartelPs.  The  elder  Teevan  genially 
overlooked  the  scene,  humming  lightly  to  himself  the 
catch  air  from  a  late  musical  comedy.  He  turned  to 
study  a  bit  of  Japanese  bronze  on  the  mantel  behind 
him,  screwing  a  single  glass  into  an  eye.  When  he  had 
scanned  the  bronze  with  a  fine  little  air  of  appreciation 
he  replaced  it,  resumed  his  jaunty  humming,  and  idly 
picked  up  a  card  that  had  been  thrown  beside  it. 
Carelessly  under  the  still  fixed  monocle  he  brought  the 
words  "Mr.  Gilbert  Denham  Ewing."  A  moment  he 
held  it  so  in  fingers  that  suddenly  trembled.  His  head 
went  sharply  back,  the  glass  dropped  from  his  eye, 
dangling  on  its  silken  ribbon,  and  his  little  song  died. 
He  glanced  about  him,  observing  the  two  groups  to  be 
still  inattentive.  Placing  a  supporting  hand  on  the 

92 


A  Dinner  at  Seven-Thirty 

mantel  he  set  the  glass  firmly  again  and  studied  the  card 
a  second  time.  Another  glance  through  the  rooms,  and 
he  resumed  his  song,  crumpling  the  card  in  his  hand. 
Then,  turning,  he  stood  once  more  before  the  fire,  his 
hands  comfortably  at  his  back.  One  of  them  tossed  the 
card  into  the  grate,  and  his  song  again  ceased. 

Bartell  looked  up,  having,  after  incredible  finesse, 
slain  and  weighed  his  giant  salmon.  Piersoll,  recalling 
that  the  anecdotist  had  killed  other  salmon  in  his  time, 
made  a  hasty  adieu  and  went  to  his  hostess,  who  lingered 
in  the  drawing  room  with  the  younger  men.  Teevan, 
before  the  fire,  breathed  in  smoke,  emitted  it  from  pursed 
lips,  studied  the  ash  at  the  end  of  his  cigarette  from  under 
raised,  speculative  brows,  and  flashed  search-light  eyes 
upon  his  host. 

"Who's  the  young  chap,  Chris?" 

Bartell  took  up  a  liqueur  glass  and  turned  to  his 
questioner. 

"Name's  Ewing,  I  believe.  Some  chap  Eleanor 
picked  up  in  the  far  West.  Painter,  I  believe,  or  means 
to  be." 

"  Painter,  yes,  to  be  sure — quite  right;  painter  ..." 
He  waited  pointedly. 

"Paints  cowboys  and  Indians,  I  fancy — the  usual 
thing.  Seems  a  decent  sort ;  rather  a  gentleman.  You're 
looking  a  bit  off.  Randy." 

"Am  I,  though?  Queer!  Never  felt  fitter.  Walked 
to  Fifty-ninth  Street  and  back  to-day.  Might  have 
overdone  a  bit.  That  chap  staying  in  town  long?" 

"  Have  to  ask  Eleanor.  It's  her  affair.  By  Jove,  old 
boy,  you  are  a  wonder.  I  wish  I  could  keep  it  off 
around  here  the  way  you  do." 

The  little  man  drew  himself  up,  expanded  his  chest, 

93 


Ewing's  Lady 


and  bravely  flourished  a  smile  of  acknowledgment. 
This  faded  into  a  look  of  hostile  curiosity,  discreetly 
veiled,  as  Mrs.  Laithe  and  the  two  young  men  came  in 
from  the  drawing  room. 

"Time  to  be  moving  on,  Governor,"  young  Teevan 
remarked. 

"I'm  not  going,  my  boy,"  the  little  man  answered 
in  crisp  tones,  with  the  hint  of  a  side  look  at  Ewing  and 
Mrs.  Laithe.  "  Run  on  like  a  good  chap  and  make  my 
excuses  to  the  dear  grandmother.  Needn't  lie,  you  know. 
Say  I  chucked  her  theater  party  at  the  last  moment 
because  the  places  are  stuffy.  Say  that  I  loathe  plush 
and  those  crumpy  little  boxes  where  one  sees  nothing 
but  the  gas  fellow  in  a  gingham  jumper  yawning  in  the 
wings.  Say  I'm  whimsical,  capricious,  fickle  as  April 
zephyrs — in  all  but  my  love  for  her.  If  you're  quite 
honest  she'll  disbelieve  you  and  guess  that  I'd  a  reason 
for  stopping  away.  Run,  like  a  good  lad,  while  I  quench 
a  craving  for  tales  of  adventure  from  the  most  charming 
of  her  sex  and  from  our  young  friend  here — will  you 
pardon  my  oversight — Ewing? — Ah,  to  be  sure,  from 
Mr.  Ewing — Ewing.  I  must  remember  that.  I'm 
a  silly  ass  about  names." 

But  when  his  son  had  gone  the  little  man  appeared  to 
forget  the  craving  that  had  prompted  his  stay.  From 
his  stand  on  the  hearth  rug  he  jauntily  usurped  the  talk, 
winging  his  way  down  the  world  stream  of  gossip  from 
capital  to  capital.  Circuitous,  indeed,  was  his  approach 
to  art;  an  anecdote  of  studio  life  in  Paris;  a  criticism 
of  Rodin,  "Whitman  in  marble;"  the  vigor  of  our  native 
art  impulse,  only  now  learning  to  withdraw  a  slavish  def- 
erence from  the  French  schools.  "And  you — Mr. — Ah, 
yes — Ewing,  to  be  sure — our  amiable  and  rotund  host 

94 


A  Dinner  at  Seven-Thirty 

tells  me  that  you  are  to  be  a  warrior  in  this  fray  of  brush 
and  chisel.  Bravo!  You  shall  show  me  work." 

Ewing  had  listened  to  his  recondite  discourse  chiefly 
with  a  morbid  expectancy  of  that  recurrent  break  in  the 
voice,  straining  until  it  came  and  relaxing  until  it  quav- 
ered back  to  the  hazardous  masculine  level.  Finding 
himself  thus  noticed  he  stammered,  "Oh,  I — I've  done 
some  work  in  black  and  white.  I  hope — Mrs.  Laithe  has 
encouraged  me." 

"A  charming  modesty,  yours;  by  no  means  the  beset- 
ting sin  of  your  craft,  but  is  Mrs.  Laithe  an  ideal  promoter 
of  genius?  I  fancy  you'll  need  a  sterner  guide,  one  to 
be  harsh  as  well  as  kind.  Women  can't  be  that,  least 
of  all  the  charming  specimen  who  has  honored  you  with 
her  patronage.  I  shall  be  proud  to  supplement  her 
deficiencies  as  critic — her  glorious,  her  fascinating  defi- 
ciencies. Women,  audacious  souls,  are  recklessly  kind. 
They  incur  perils  to  chill  the  blood  of  brave  enough 
men,  meaning  monstrously  well  all  the  time" — his 
narrowed  eyes  sought  to  read  the  face  of  Mrs.  Laithe — 
"but  I've  yet  to  see  one  worth  a  second  look  who  had 
divined  that  there  exists  a  certain  arbitrary  relation 
between  cause  and  effect.  Need  I  word  the  inference? 
.  .  .  No?  ..."  Relieved  by  his  scrutiny  of  her  face 
he  broke  off,  his  heart  leaping  to  the  thought,  "She 
doesn't  know — doesn't  know  .  .  .  the  fool!" 

"  I'll  be  glad  to  show  you  what  I  have,"  Ewing  an- 
swered, rejoicing  at  this  solicitude  in  a  critic  so  obviously 
eminent.  "  I've  been  afraid  all  along  that  Mrs.  Laithe 
might  be  too  kind." 

"Kinder  than  she  knew — kindness  is  no  word  for  her 
excess.  Women  lack  fiber  where  their  sympathies  are 
involved.  They'll  not  inflict  pain  within  scope  of  their 

95 


Ewing's  Lady 

imaginations — beyond  that  rather  narrow  field  of  course 
they're  merciless,  bless  them!  But  trust  me  to  score 
your  work  if  it  deserves  that,  and  trust  me  to  praise 
if  it  merits  praise.  You  shall  exhibit  to  me.  By  the 
way" — he  consulted  a  small  enameled  watch — "I've 
a  bit  of  time  to  spare.  If  you're  stepping  along  I'll 
not  mind  looking  at  your  things  this  evening." 

Ewing  arose,  glowing  with  pleasure.  He  felt  drawn 
to  this  wonderful  little  man  who  knew  everything,  and 
who  was  visibly  kind — just,  at  any  rate — under  that 
fantastic  cloak  of  severity. 

"You're  very  good,"  he  said.  "I'm  staying  close  by, 
at  the  Stuyvesant." 

"  Drop  in  often,  Ewing,"  urged  Bartell  as  they  shook 
hands.  "And  don't  let  Teevan  put  you  down.  I  dare 
say  you'll  come  on,  you  know,  if  you  chuck  worry." 

As  he  parted  from  Mrs.  Laithe  he  was  aware  of  a  new 
look  in  her  eyes.  He  had  learned  to  read  them.  They 
sought  now  to  tell  him  .  .  .  what?  There  was  a 
warning  in  them,  and  her  glance  seemed  to  enfold  him 
almost  protectingly.  But  her  words  were  not  more  than 
those  of  formal  parting,  with  a  suggestion  that  he  drop 
in  for  tea  some  afternoon  soon. 


96 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  WAY   OF   THE   UTTLE   MAN 

THEY  walked  briskly  to  the  Stuyvesant  in  silence, 
for  Ewing  could  think  of  nothing  to  say,  and 
his  companion  seemed  preoccupied.  He  showed, 
indeed,  the  stress  of  some  excitement,  for  Ewing  once 
heard  him  mutter  heatedly.  Suspecting  this  to  be 
meant  for  himself,  he  evoked  by  inquiry  only  an  impa- 
tient "Not  here — not  here!"  He  believed  that  his 
distinguished  companion  must  be  engrossed  for  the 
moment  with  something  profounder  than  the  drawings, 
of  a  novice. 

At  the  hotel  they  ascended  to  Ewing' s  room.  Indicat- 
ing a  chair  to  Teevan  he  went  to  the  mantel  for  matches. 
When  he  had  set  the  room  to  sudden  light  he  stepped 
quickly  back,  for  the  little  man,  standing  there,  glared 
at  him  in  a  panic  of  fear  and  disgust. 

In  the  shock  of  his  embarrassment  Ewing  fumbled 
at  his  overcoat  and  slowly  drew  it  off.  Teevan's  eyes 
now  blazed  rage  upon  him.  His  small,  withered,  blue- 
veined  hands  were  tightly  clenched  at  his  sides.  His 
attitude  was  almost  a  crouch.  Ewing  felt  a  furtive 
amusement  above  his  dismay,  at  sight  of  the  dapper 
little  figure  in  this  incongruous  battle  pose. 

A  moment  they  stood  so,  then  the  upper  lip  of  Teevan 
lifted  slowly  to  a  snarl.  Seeing  that  he  was  about 
to  speak,  there  ran  with  Ewing's  amazement  an  absurd 
apprehension  of  that  break  in  the  voice. 

97 


Ewing's  Lady 

"What  do  you  mean  by  it?"  The  swiftness,  the 
intensity  of  the  utterance  held  the  voice  level  thus  far, 
but  the  break  came  with  the  next  words,  and  the  speech 
ended  in  a  wail. 

"What  do  you  think  to  gain  by  coming  here — by 
hounding  me — by  hounding  me?" 

Ewing  constrained  himself  to  quiet,  with  an  impulse 
to  soothe  this  inexplicable  fury. 

"Please  sit  down,  won't  you?  You  were  going  to 
criticise  my  drawings,  you  know.  You  suggested  it 
a  moment  ago,  and  I  thought — "  He  took  up  a  port- 
folio of  sketches  from  one  of  the  open  trunks. 

"Your  trash!  What's  that  to  me?  Do  you  think 
to  pass  this  off?  You've  learned  effrontery  in  a  fine 
school.  Come  to  the  point.  What  can  you  make  by 
this  indecency — this " 

Ewing's  look  checked  him — something  genuine  in 
his  bewilderment. 

"Come,"  began  Teevan  again,  "is  it  possible  you're 
no  one,  after  all,  instead  of  being  less  than  no  one?  You 
know  me,  don't  you?" 

"Of  course  I  know  you;  Mrs.  Laithe  introduced  us." 

"Oh,  don't  juggle.  You  can't  swagger  it  off  with 
me.  You  shall  not  hound  me  or  mine." 

"Hound?"  Ewing  sought  for  light,  still  trying  to 
subdue  this  absurd  assailant. 

"Hound,  I  said,  you  smug  brat!  You  know  me — 
you've  not  forgotten  my  name  so  soon." 

"Teevan,  I  believe.     Really,  Mr.  Teevan — I— 

"Randall  Gordon  Teevan!  The  name  meant  some- 
thing to  you,  didn't  it?" 

"No;  it  didn't  mean  anything  to  me." 

"Ah!  say  that  again!"  He  came  toward  the 
98 


The  Way  of  the  Little  Man 

younger  man  to  peer  up  into  his  face  with  a  grinning, 
incredulous  scowl.  "Say  it  again!" 

Ewing  drew  back  from  his  scrutiny  with  a  slight 
impatience. 

"Why  say  it  again?  Isn't  once  enough?  You  hear 
well,  don't  you?  What  should  your  name  mean  to  me?  " 

"You  still  try  to  carry  that  off?  Your  game  isn't 
ready  to  play?" 

Ewing  resumed  his  patient  search. 

"See  here,  Mr.  Teevan,  let's  be  very  quiet  and  get  at 
this.  I  never  heard  your  name  until  an  hour  ago. 
Perhaps  it  ought  to  mean  something  to  me,  but  it 
doesn't.  I'm  not  well  acquainted  in  New  York;  I 
only  came  here  to-day.  Now" — his  voice  became 
cajoling — "suppose  you  sit  down  there  quietly  and  tell 
me  all  about  yourself." 

"Your  name  is  Ewing,  isn't  it?" 

"Of  course!" 

"What's  your  full  name?" 

"Gilbert  Denhatn  Ewing." 

"  Damn  him!" 

"Damn  him?     You  are  speaking  of  me?" 

"Not  you — you  cub!" 

"Another  Ewing?" 

"Another  Gilbert  Denham  Ewing!" 

"  I  never  knew  any  other  but  my  father.  And  you 
wouldn't  be  damning  him." 

He  said  this  with  a  confident  smile,  and  the  peering 
little  man  at  last  read  him  accurately.  An  impalpable 
veil  seemed  to  screen  his  scowling  face.  Erect  from 
his  peering  stoop  he  passed  a  small  hand  dazedly  across 
his  brow,  and  his  face  had  become  pleasantly  ingenuous, 
alive  with  a  half-comprehending  regret.  With  a 

99 


Ewing's  Lady 

rueful  laugh  he  put  out  a  hand  to  Ewing,  who  took  it, 
to  say  the  least,  doubtfully. 

'A  thousand  pardons,  my  boy!  I  fear  I've  suffered 
an  attack  of  nervous  aberration  to  which  I  am  unhappily 
subject.  It's  most  distressing.  I'm  chagrined  beyond 
measure  by  the  annoyance  I  must  have  caused  you, 
I  give  no  end  of  worry  to  my  specialist  by  these  seizures. 
My  speech  wandered  provokingly,  I  dare  say.  It 
always  does.  You'd  not  credit  some  of  the  things  I've 
said  to  my  dearest  friends  at  such  times.  But  you  can 
fancy  the  mortification  it  is  to  me.  You'll  pardon  me, 
I  trust — youth's  charity  for  the  failings  of  age.  The 
horrid  truth  is  that  I'm  a  bit  oldish — not  aged,  not 
outworn,  mind  you — my  years  have  come  and  gone 
lightly — but  at  times  like  these  I'm  obliged  to  admit 
the  count.  Come,  you'll  forget?" 

Ewing  delightedly  pressed  his  hand.  He  could 
believe  the  little  man's  tale  of  his  years.  The  hair 
that  he  had  remarked  for  its  young  look  had  been 
uncannily  twisted  on  the  head  of  its  wearer  during  the 
flurry  of  his  transport.  An  area  of  luminous  scalp 
now  showed  above  one  ear. 

He  stammered  awkward  but  heartfelt  words  of 
assurance. 

"Doubtless  it  quite  bowled  you  over,"  Teevan  pur- 
sued— "though  I  never  can  recall  what  I've  said; 
but  let  us  forget,  and,  if  you'd  not  mind,  let  us  say 
nothing  of  it  to  anyone — to  Mrs.  Z,aithe,  for  example. 
If  it  came  to  the  ears  of  my  son — he's  over-anxious 
about  me  already." 

"Certainly,  I'll  not  speak  of  it,  and  I'm  sorry,  very 
sorry.  Lay  your  gloves  on  the  mantel  there  and  find 
a  seat."  He  turned  to  his  trunk,  hoping  the  little  man 

100 


The  Way  of  the  Little  Man 

would  sight  his  head  in  the  mirror.  When  he  again 
looked  up  the  hair  was  in  perfect  adjustment,  and 
Teevan  beamed  on  him  from  an  armchair. 

"Your  father,"  he  began,  "I  seem  to  recall  your 
saying  it— *was  a  painter.  Doubtless  he  taught  you 
much." 

"I  studied  with  him  there  in  the  mountains  till  he 
died.  I've  nothing  left  of  his  but  this  portrait  of  my 
mother." 

He  took  the  unframed  canvas  from  the  tray  of  the 
trunk  and  held  it  before  his  guest. 

"Do  you  get  the  right  light  there?" 

It  had  been  a  bad  quarter  of  an  hour  for  Hwing,  and, 
as  he  adjusted  the  picture,  he  felt  a  moment's  satisfac- 
tion in  having  weathered  it  so  plausibly.  And  now 
that  the  curious  little  gentleman  seemed  restored,  it 
was  pleasant  to  anticipate  his  cultured  appreciation 
of  that  work  of  art  which  was  the  boy's  chief  treasure. 

"There  isn't  any  shine  across  it  now,  is  there?"  he 
asked,  and  looked  up  with  a  shy,  proud,  waiting  smile. 

But  the  agitations  that  had  gone  before  were  as 
nothing  to  what  now  passed  in  front  of  his  dismayed 
eyes.  One  moment  his  guest  hung  staring  at  the  canvas 
with  a  goblin  horror;  then,  uttering  a  kind  of  sob,  he 
shot  incontinently  out  of  the  door. 

The  harried  Ewing  dropped  the  picture  and  rushed 
in  pursuit.  He  came  up  with  the  little  man  at  the 
head  of  the  stairs.  He  was  trembling,  and  his  face 
was  ashen  gray;  but  after  a  few  deep  breaths  he  smiled 
and  waved  a  hand  jauntily  to  indicate  humorous  despair. 
It  seemed  to  say,  "  I  am  frequently  like  this — it's  annoy- 
ing past  words."  He  spoke  of  needing  a  restorative  and 
suggested  an  advisable  haste  in  the  direction  of  the  cafe". 

101 


Ewing's  Lady 

"They've  some  choice  old  cognac  downstairs.  Sup- 
pose we  chat  over  a  bit  of  it.  I'm  rather  done  up. 
These  absurd  attacks  of  mine  react  on  the  heart.  A 
noggin  of  brandy  will  fetch  me  about.  You'll  come?" 

They  were  presently  at  a  table  in  the  hotel  cafe". 

"We've  the  room  to  ourselves,"  said  Teevan  genially. 
"Delightful  old  place,  this;  restful,  reminiscent,  mellow 
— and  generally  empty.  I  detest  the  cheap  glitter 
of  those  uptown  places  with  their  rowdy  throngs.  They 
make  me  feel  like  a  fish  in  a  fiddle  box,  as  our  French 
cousins  say.  You'll  have  soda  with  yours?" 

Teevan  drank  his  own  brandy  neat,  and  at  once 
refilled  his  glass. 

"  Now  for  a  chat  about  yourself,  my  young  friend — 
for  surely  only  a  friend  could  have  borne  with  me  as 
tenderly  as  you  have  this  evening.  You're  a  fellow 
of  promise — the  future  clamors  for  you — your  drawings 
enchant  me." 

Ewing  reflected  that  his  drawings  had  not  been  ex- 
posed, but  the  intention  was  kind,  and  he  was  grateful 
for  that.  Teevan  drank  more  brandy  with  a  dainty 
relish,  and  begged  to  hear  of  his  young  friend's  adven- 
tures in  the  far  hills. 

Ewing  expanded  in  the  warmth  of  this  kindly  con- 
cern. He  told,  little  by  little,  under  adroit  prompting, 
what  he  had  to  tell.  Teevan  displayed  a  gratifying 
interest,  especially  in  what  he  recounted  of  his  mother's 
death.  But  at  intervals  during  this  recital  the  young 
man  became  conscious,  with  astonishment,  that  there 
was  an  inexplicable  look  on  the  other's  face,  a  look  which 
he  suddenly  discovered  to  be  an  unbelievable  veiled 
pleasure. 

He  fell  back  with  a  quick,  blind  repulsion,  and  the 
102 


The  Way  of  the  Little  Man 

two  stared  at  each  other,  the  elder  man  dissolving  with 
difficulty  a  monstrous  smile.  He  appeared  to  recover 
himself  with  an  effort,  finding  the  lines  about  his  mouth 
refractory,  but  his  embarrassment  was  so  poignant 
that  Ewing  felt  sorry  for  him. 

"You  must  forgive  me,  old  fellow!  These  damned 
treacherous  nerves  of  mine!  I  shall  see  that  specialist 
chap  of  mine  directly  in  the  morning.  I'm  so  weak 
that  the  sadness  of  that  poor  lady's  death  set  me  off 
into  something  like  hysteria." 

It  was  one  o'clock  when  they  parted,  and  then  only 
at  a  hint  that  the  place  would  close  its  old-fashioned 
doors  for  the  night.  Ewing  rejoiced  to  feel  that  he  had 
made  a  desirable  friend.  He  liked  the  little  man  well. 
Teevan  had  said  at  the  last.  "You  should  move  on 
to  Paris,  my  boy.  You'll  need  the  touch  they  give 
only  in  that  blessed  rendezvous  of  the  masters."  Ewing 
went  to  his  room  realizing  that  the  world  of  his  dreams 
did  actually  abound  in  adventure.  His  first  day  had 
been  memorable. 

Teevan  walked  through  Ninth  Street  to  his  own 
home,  a  few  doors  beyond  the  Bartell  house.  It  was 
a  place  of  much  the  same  old-fashioned  lines,  that  had 
withstood  the  north-setting  current. 

He  let  himself  in  and  went  to  the  dining  room  at 
the  rear.  Here  he  lighted  a  gas  jet,  took  a  decanter 
from  the  sideboard,  and  brought  a  glass  and  a  bottle 
of  soda  from  the  butler's  pantry.  He  sipped  the  drink 
and  lighted  a  cigarette.  His  musings,  as  first  reflected 
in  his  face,  were  agreeable.  His  mouth  twitched 
pleasantly,  his  eyes  glistened.  At  intervals  he  chuckled 
and  muttered.  With  an  increase  of  brandy  in  the  glass 
he  became  more  serious. 

103 


Ewing's  Lady 


When  Alden  Teevan  entered  an  hour  later  he  found 
his  father  in  a  mood  astonishingly  savage.  At  sight 
of  his  son  the  little  man  became  vocal  with  meaningless 
abuse.  It  was  as  if  the  presence  of  a  listener  incited 
him  to  continue  aloud  some  tirade  that  he  had  pursued 
in  silence.  But  the  younger  Teevan,  lounging  in  the 
doorway,  only  stared  with  polite  concern  as  he  was 
greeted  with  these  emotional  phrases: 

" — a  damned  milk-and-water  Narcissus — a  pre- 
tentious cub  with  the  airs  of  a  cheap  manikin  of  the 
world — a  squeaking  parasite — a  toadlike,  damned 
obscenity " 

An  easy  smile  came  to  the  son's  face  as  he  noted  the 
fallen  tide  in  the  decanter. 

"  Night-night,  my  quaint,  amiable  father — and  cheery 
dreams!" 

They  studied  each  other  a  moment.  The  elder  man 
seemed  to  meditate  some  disclosure,  but  stopped  on  the 
verge  of  it. 

"That's  all,  my  boy!" 

The  young  man  laughed  again. 

"It's  enough,  I  fancy — but  don't  overdo  it,  Randy. 
You  know  one  mustn't  at  your  age." 

"I'm  taking  care,  taking  care  of  everything,  my 
boy — never  you  fear " 

The  other  passed  on,  but  stopped  at  the  stairway 
and  called  back: 

"I  say,  Randy!" 

"Yes — yes " 

"Get  to  bed,  you  absurd  little  rat,  you!" 


104 


CHAPTER  XI 

A   NIGHT   AT  THE   MONASTERY 

EWING  awoke  late  the  next  morning,  rejoicing 
that  he  need  not  cook  his  breakfast.  After 
feeding  his  hill-born  hunger  with  novel  and 
exciting  foods  he  sauntered  out  to  become  a  wave  on 
the  tide  that  flooded  those  strange,  heart-shaking  streets. 
He  mentally  blazed  his  trail  as  he  went.  His  soul 
marched  to  the  swift  and  cheerful  stepping  of  the  life 
about  him.  He  remembered  Ben's  warnings  and 
wished  that  expert  in  urban  evil  could  see  how  little 
menacing  was  this  splendid  procession.  That  the 
Saturday  throng  of  shoppers  and  pleasure  seekers  was 
unaware  of  the  greatness  of  the  moment  to  him  lent  a 
zest  of  secrecy  to  his  scouting. 

Back  and  forth  he  wandered  on  Broadway,  the 
moving  crowds,  volatile  as  quicksilver,  holding  him 
with  a  hypnotic  power.  Often  he  stopped  before  some 
shop,  hotel,  or  theater  that  he  had  come  to  know  in 
print.  Not  until  five  o'clock  did  he  find  that  he  was 
leg  weary.  Then  he  took  his  bearings  and,  in  his  own 
phrase,  "made  back  to  camp." 

A  boy  brought  him  Piersoll's  card  at  six,  and  Piersoll 
followed.  He  came  with  that  alert  self-possession 
which  Ewing  had  come  to  consider  typical  of  these 
dwellers  in  a  crowd  where  each  is  the  inconsiderable 
part  of  a  great  organic  body,  and  must  yet  preserve 
his  unique  oneship. 

8  105 


Ewing's  Lady 


"Bully  old  place,  this,"  Piersoll  began.  "My  mother 
came  to  balls  here  thirty  years  ago.  Show  me  your 
stuff." 

He  dropped  into  one  of  the  armchairs  and  lighted  a 
cigarette. 

EJwing  opened  a  portfolio  and  placed  drawings  along 
the  wall.  Piersoll  slid  his  chair  closer  and  studied  them. 

"They're  only  little  things  I've  seen,"  murmured 
Ewing.  "I  haven't  had  a  chance  to  see  much." 

Piersoll  blew  out  smoke  and  arose  to  put  one  of  the 
drawings  in  a  better  light.  He  gazed  at  this  closely, 
swept  his  eye  again  over  the  others,  and  exclaimed, 
"All  right!  Bully!  Good  drawing,  and  the  real  thing. 
That's  the  point — you've  drawn  only  what  you've  seen. 
They're  not  all  equally  interesting,  but  they're  all  true. 
You'll  do." 

"  I'm  glad  you  like  them.  I  never  knew  if  they  were 
good." 

"They're  better  than  I  expected,  from  Mrs.  Laithe's 
talk.  She  was  so  keen  about  them,  I  made  allowances." 

"  Mrs.  Laithe  seemed  to  think  I  might  sell  them." 

"Some  of  those  you  can  sell,  undoubtedly.  The 
others  show  what  you  can  do.  They'll  get  your  orders. 
The  magazines  are  using  a  lot  of  Western  stuff.  That 
ranchman's  wife  there  in  her  poor  little  flower  garden, 
surrounded  by  a  million  miles  of  sage  and  cactus — fine! 
It's  a  story  picture,  and  the  story's  good.  The  Knicker- 
bocker might  use  that.  They  might  want  a  series  from 
you — six  drawings  or  so — 'Scenes  of  Ranch  Life.'" 

"It  sounds  too  good." 

"It's  not,  and  you'll  get  stories  to  illustrate.  Can 
you  draw  a  pretty  cowboy?" 

"Pretty?" 

106 


A  Night  at  the  Monastery 

"The  kind  in  the  magazine  story.  Harvard  man, 
half-back,  old  New  York  family,  named  Van-Something 
or  other;  unhappy  love  affair;  tries  ranch  life;  fearless 
rider,  dead  shot  'six  feet  of  clean-limbed,  virile  young 
manhood,'  is  the  approved  phrase  for  him.  He's  a 
beautiful  thing — his  man  keeps  his  chaps  pressed, 
and  he  never  is  seen  needing  a  shave " 

Ewing  grinned  appreciatively. 

"Girl  comes  out  from  New  York,"  continued  Piersoll 
— "the  girl,  with  her  fierce  aunt — home  on  north  side 
of  Washington  Square.  I'm  going  to  do  an  article 
on  the  story  people  who've  had  fine  old  homes  on  the 
north  side  of  Washington  Square — thousands!  That 
one  block  would  have  to  be  ten  miles  long  to  hold  'em. 
Girl  in  tea  gown,  fierce  aunt  with  lorgnon — threatened 
with  death — flood,  fire,  Apaches,  stage-robbers,  vicious 
bull,  rattler — anything!  Rescued  by  cool,  daring, 
clean-limbed  Van-Soforth,  who  says  'By  Jove!'  as  he 
risks  his  life.  That  is,  if  it's  in  one  of  the  respectable 
magazines.  If  it's  only  a  young  ten-center  he  says 
'Damn!'  right  out  in  print.  Then,  love  scene  on  mesa, 
faithful  cow  pony  and  mountains  in  background,  and 
return  to  New  York  by  next  train,  with  clean-limbed 
Harold  in  one  of  our  gent's  nobby  sack  suits  that  sets 
off  the  unconscious  grace  of  his  slight  but  muscular 
figure — oh,  you  know  the  story." 

"I  have  read  it  somewhere — something  like  it." 

"You'll  go  on  reading  it.  But  you'll  have  to  pretty 
your  cowboys  if  you  make  the  pictures  for  it.  Hulston 
usually  illustrates  it.  He  can  draw  a  cowboy  that 
would  make  a  bunch  of  violets  look  coarse." 

"I'm  afraid  I  couldn't " 

"Of  course  you  couldn't.  But  you'll  find  work. 
107 


Ewing's  Lady 

Some  of  the  magazines  are  becoming  reckless  and 
printing  stories  of  cowboys  that  are  almost  real.  Come 
along  to  the  club.  You'll  meet  some  fellows  there. 
The  chap  that  printed  my  book  is  dining  with  me, 
but  he'll  slip  off  early  and  we  can  have  the  evening 
together." 

"I  liked  your  book,"  Ewing  ventured,  when  they 
were  in  the  street. 

"Well,  that's  comforting.  I  dare  say  it  was  easier 
to  read  than  it  was  to  write.  But  about  this  club  you're 
going  to — it's  a  little  place  we've  started  lately — illus- 
trators, newspaper  men,  book  writers  and  that  ilk. 
You  must  join.  I  believe  I'll  be  safe  in  putting  you  up." 

"I  never  joined  a  club,"  Ewing  confessed.  "Are 
there  conditions?" 

"Rigid  ones — you  must  have  ten  dollars  for  the 
entrance-fee,  and  not  be  a  leper." 

"Well" — Ewing  debated — "I  have  the  money " 

"That's  all  you  need  think  about.  The  other  part 
is  ours.  We  have  you  in  to  dine  and  look  you  over. 
Lots  of  men  go  there  with  an  idea  that  they  must  be 
witty.  One  fellow  was  turned  down  last  week  for 
springing  'made'  jokes  at  the  table.  I  believe  he  spoke 
of  'quail  on  trust'  as  we  were  served  with  that  bird — 
and  in  the  hearing  of  three  members  of  the  board  of 
Abbots.  That  settled  him,  of  course.  They  didn't 
need  his  imitations  of  a  German  dialect  comedian,  which 
he  sought  to  convulse  them  with  later.  Another  man 
was  turned  down  lately  for  saying,  'Oh,  how  quaintly 
bohemian!'  after  he'd  looked  about  the  grill  room. 
Another  was  ejected  for  playing  'chopsticks'  on  the 
piano  with  the  edges  of  his  hands.  They  didn't  even 
let  him  get  to  the  table.  That's  the  sort  of  thing— and 

1 08 


A  Night  at  the  Monastery 

we're  strict,  even  though  we  need  the  money.  I'm 
bursar  and  I  know.  There  are  weird  jests  about  my 
decamping  with  the  club  funds,  but  I've  never  had 
enough  surplus  yet  to  take  me  beyond  Rah  way." 

They  ascended  the  steps  of  a  dingy-fronted  brick 
house  in  Clinton  Place,  a  little  out  of  the  Broadway 
rush.  Passing  through  a  bare,  echoing  hall,  they  entered 
one  of  the  two  dining  rooms  of  the  club,  connected  by 
immense  sliding  doors,  now  thrown  open.  They  were 
broad,  lofty  rooms  with  stained  floors,  mantels  of  gray 
marble,  and  rich  old  doors  of  polished  mahogany  framed 
in  white  casements — the  drawing  rooms  of  some  staid 
family  of  a  bygone  generation,  before  the  trade  army 
had  invaded  this  once  quiet  neighborhood. 

Bwing  at  once  noticed  the  walls.  They  had  been 
covered  with  a  grayish-brown  cartridge  paper,  and  on 
this  the  members  of  the  Monastery  had  plied  their 
charcoal  in  fancies  more  or  less  attuned  to  the  spirit 
of  the  organization.  There  were  monks  in  most  of 
the  pictures,  monks  combating  or,  alas!  overborne  by 
one  or  another  of  that  meretricious  trinity  which  ever 
conspires  against  godly  living.  Over  the  mantel  in 
the  first  room  a  pink-fleshed  nymph  in  simple  garb  of 
chef's  cap  allured  an  all  but  yielding  St.  Anthony 
with  one  of  the  club's  dinner  menus  held  before  his 
hunger-lit  eyes.  On  a  panel  to  the  right  of  this  a  befud- 
dled lay  brother,  having  emptied  a  flagon  of  wine, 
perched  on  the  arm  of  a  chair  and  angled  fatuously 
in  a  jar  of  mocking  goldfish,  to  the  refrain: 

"  For  to-morrow  will  be  Friday,  and 
We've  caught  no  fish  to-day! " 

To  the  left,  Brother  Hilarius  furtively  ignored  his 
breviary  as  he  passed  a  gay  affiche,  from  which  a  silken- 

109 


Ewing's  Lady 

limbed  dancer  beguiled  him  with  nimble,  worldly  caper- 
ings,  and  smiles  of  the  flesh  and  the  devil. 

"There's  a  vacant  panel  or  two  in  the  other  room," 
said  Piersoll.  "We'll  save  one  for  you.  Come  down 
to  the  grill  room — it's  early  yet." 

They  went  out  through  the  hall  and  down  a  narrow 
stairway.  They  heard  the  lively  hum  of  voices,  and 
Ewing  found  himself  in  a  low,  wainscoted  room,  finished 
in  dull  gray,  where  a  dozen  or  so  men  talked  loungingly 
in  corners,  awaiting  the  dinner  hour. 

Piersoll  presented  him  to  several  of  these  in  so  quick  a 
succession  that  their  names  became  a  many-syllabled 
murmur  in  his  ears.  They  found  seats  on  a  red-cush- 
ioned corner  bench  of  churchly  pattern,  and  Piersoll 
ordered  cocktails. 

Ewing  tried  to  follow  the  talk  running  about  him. 
A  boyish-looking  reporter  for  a  morning  paper  was 
telling  at  a  nearby  table  how  he  had  been  the  first  to 
reach  the  scene  of  a  railroad  wreck  in  Pennsylvania  late 
the  night  before  by  fording  a  swollen  river.  At  another 
table  a  successful  playwright  obligingly  expounded  the 
laws  of  dramatic  construction  to  a  respectful  novice, 
who  seemed  puzzled  by  their  simplicity.  At  their  own 
table  a  youth  of  yellow  melancholy  confided  to  Piersoll 
that  the  afternoon  had  witnessed  an  important  transac- 
tion in  verse — the  sale  of  his  ballade,  "She  Was  a  Belle 
in  the  Days  of  Daguerre."  "The  editor  of  'Quips' 
took  it  and  paid  on  acceptance — let's  have  another," 
he  added  with  deep  significance. 

The  atmosphere  of  the  place  was  unthinkingly  demo- 
cratic. The  cub  reporter  here  met  his  city  editor  as  man 
to  man.  Piersoll  identified  various  members  of  the  gath- 
ering— the  dramatic  critic  of  an  evening  paper  in  busy 

no 


A  Night  at  the  Monastery 

talk  with  the  Wall  Street  man  of  the  same  sheet;  a 
promising  young  composer  cornered  by  the  star  re- 
porter of  a  morning  paper,  a  grizzled  knight  of  the  world 
of  war,  crime,  flood,  fire,  and  all  mischance  of  any  news 
value,  a  man  who  had  attained  the  dignity  of  signing 
his  "stuff."  Old  men  and  young,  they  were  compacted 
of  nerves,  vividly  alive,  even  those  in  whom  the  desk 
stoop  could  be  detected. 

The  movable  feast  of  the  cocktail  waned  and  the  groups 
drifted  upstairs.  The  publisher  for  whom  Piersoll 
waited  came  at  last,  a  bland  but  keen-eyed  gentleman 
of  early  middle  age,  introduced  to  Ewing  as  Mr.  Layton, 
of  Layton  &  Company.  They  followed  the  others  up 
to  the  dining  room,  and  Piersoll  found  a  table  for  three 
under  the  drawing  of  the  earnest  but  miscalculating 
angler. 

Ewing  nervously  apprehended  talk  of  an  abstruse 
literary  character  from  which  he  would  be  debarred. 
The  talk  assuredly  became  abstruse,  but  it  dealt  in 
literary  values  solely  as  related  to  public  taste  in  the 
novel  of  commerce,  and  to  the  devices  of  Lay  ton  & 
Company  for  divining  and  stimulating  that  variable 
quantity. 

Instead  of  descanting  on  Shakespeare,  as  Ewing  had 
supposed  a  publisher  would  do,  Layton,  with  the  soup, 
plunged  into  a  racy  narrative  of  how  he  had  "boomed" 
sales  of  "The  Mask  of  Malcolm"  the  year  before.  That 
had  been  a  success  compounded  of  trifles.  Witness 
Lay  ton's  chance  view  from  a  car  window  of  a  "  Mask  of 
Malcolm"  poster  on  a  watering  cart  that  toiled  through 
the  dusty  main  street  of  a  remote  Western  village.  He 
had  written  to  the  postmaster  of  that  town  for  the  name 
of  the  cart's  driver,  sent  him  a  copy  of  the  novel 

in 


E wing's  Lady 

inscribed  by  the  author,  and  enough  more  posters  to 
cover  his  cart.  Result:  a  sale  in  the  aroused  village 
and  surrounding  country  of  two  hundred  and  eighty 
"Masks,"  where  otherwise  not  more  than  half  a  dozen 
would  have  been  sold.  Further  result:  the  watering 
carts  of  the  great  mid-West  were  now  cunningly  blazoned 
with  incitements  to  purchase  Lay  ton  &  Company's 
fiction. 

Ewing  still  feared  Shakespeare  or  Chaucer,  or  George 
Eliot,  at  the  least;  but  the  publisher  clung  to  earth, 
launching  into  his  plans  for  PiersolPs  next  book.  "The 
Promotion  of  Fools"  was  in  its  hundredth  thousand. 
The  next  book  must  go  beyond  this. 

"You  want  a  smashing  good  love  scene  at  the  end," 
urged  the  sapient  Layton,  "and  plenty  of  good,  plain, 
honest  heart  feeling  all  through  it.  Make  a  quaintly 
humorous  character,  simple-minded,  trusting,  but  still 
shrewd,  and  win  the  reader's  sympathy  for  him  by  giving 
him  some  sort  of  hard  luck — a  crippled  child  that  dies 
isn't  bad,  if  the  father  has  been  harsh  to  him  some 
time,  not  meaning  to  be,  you  know.  And  not  too  much 
dialect;  enough  to  contrast  well  with  the  Fifth  Avenue 
people.  Then,  with  the  kind  of  hero  you  know  how 
to  draw — swell  family,  handsome,  refined,  a  real  gentle- 
man, and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  with  an  English  valet — 
you'll  have  a  story  that  will  go.  You  can  write  a  winner, 
Piersoll,  if  you'll  listen  to  your  publisher.  We  keep 
our  fingers  on  the  public  pulse ;  we  know  the  taste  better 
than  you  can  know  it,  shut  up  in  your  office.  And 
have  a  good,  catchy  dedication — people  are  interested 
in  your  personality.  Couldn't  you  have  in  the  next 
book  something  like  'To  my  Mother  in  Heaven,  whose 
Memory ' " 

112 


A  Night  at  the  Monastery 

"Our  people  are  all  Unitarians,"  suggested  Piersoll. 

"What  difference  does  that  make " 

"And  my  mother  has  been  graciously  spared  to 
us " 

"Well,  then,  'To  my  Gray-haired  Mother,  whose 
Loving  Counsel  has  ever — '  you  know  the  sort  of  thing, 
short  and  snappy,  but  full  of  feeling.  It  helps,  let  me 
tell  you,  with  the  people  who  pick  up  a  book  on  the 
stands." 

Ewing  lost  the  run  of  this  talk  for  a  time,  entertaining 
himself  with  a  study  of  the  other  diners.  The  rooms 
had  rapidly  filled,  and  two  waiters  scurried  among  the 
tables.  His  attention  focused  on  a  long  table  in  the 
center  of  the  room,  whose  occupants  made  savage  and 
audible  comment  on  diners  at  other  tables,  and  confided 
to  one  another,  in  loud,  free  tones,  their  frank  impres- 
sions of  late  comers. 

The  door  opened  upon  a  goodly  youth  in  evening 
dress.  Seven  pairs  of  eyes  from  the  big  table  fixed 
him  coldly  as  he  removed  his  overcoat. 

A  voice,  affectedly  mincing:  "As  I  live — handsome 
Harold  Armytage!" 

Another  voice,  hoarse  with  rage:  "Curse  ye,  devil 
that  ye  are,  with  yer  oily  tongue  and  city  ways !  where's 
me  daughter  Letty,  me  little  lass,  that  ye  took  up  to 
the  big  city  and  threatened  to  make  a  lady  of?" 

A  voice,  hushed  and  slow:  "They — say — the — 
child — is — in — London." 

The  newcomer,  flicking  the  ash  from  his  cigarette, 
glowered  at  the  last  speaker  and  hissed:  "As  for  you, 
Black  Bart,  alias  Jasper  Vinton,  remember  that  one  word 
from  me  would  set  all  Scotland  Yard  on  your  trail!" 

A  new  voice  from  the  table:     "Stand  back,  Hector 

"3 


Ewing's  Lady 

Walsingham!  I  would  rather  be  the  poor  working 
girl  I  am  than  the  gilded  toy  your  wealth  would  make 
me — and  besides,  you  wear  made  ties!  I'll  have  to 
speak  to  the  stage  manager  about  that,"  continued  the 
speaker  in  less  dramatic  tones.  "  Look,  it's  one  of  those 
horrible  made  things  that  fasten  at  the  back  of  his  neck 
with  a  harness  buckle — see  his  hand  go  up  to  it!" 

The  newcomer  emitted  a  mocking  laugh,  but  judi- 
ciously sought  a  seat  in  the  next  room. 

"Say — new  idea  for  a  melodrama,"  came  another 
voice  from  the  long  table.  "The  old  thing  with  an 
Ibsen  twist.  Stern  father  ready  to  drive  erring  daugh- 
ter from  his  door  in  a  snowstorm,  but  it  won't  snow! 
Of  course  he  can't  send  her  off  in  pleasant  weather.  It 
clouds  up  every  few  days,  and  the  old  man  hopefully 
gets  his  speech  ready — 'Curse  ye,  ye  are  no  longer  a 
daughter  of  mine!'  but  the  sun  comes  out  again.  Girl 
gets  nervous.  Young  squire  gets  nervous,  too,  though 
he's  married  the  girl  in  secret.  He  begs  the  old  man  to 
put  her  out  and  have  it  over  with,  even  if  the  weather 
is  pleasant.  Old  man  won't  hear  of  such  a  thing.  Got 
to  have  a  howling  snowstorm.  His  mind  fails;  he  sits 
in  the  chimney  corner  driveling  about  the  horrible 
winters  they  used  to  have  when  you  could  curse  a  daugh- 
ter out  almost  any  day  in  the  week.  Everybody  dis- 
gusted at  the  way  things  are  dragging.  Young  peo- 
ple quarrel.  Divorce!  Young  squire  sails  for  Labra- 
dor to  try  it  again,  where  you  can  count  on  the  winters. 
Girl  watches  ship  out  of  sight,  and  it  .snows!  Snows 
hard.  But  too  late — ah,  God,  too  late!  She  rushes 
back  home  to  find  the  old  man  delirious  with  joy.  He 
starts  in  to  do  his  speech  at  last,  but  she  slowly  strangles 
him  with  her  muscular  young  hands.  Rather  good  cur- 

114 


A  Night  at  the  Monastery 

tain,  that — yes?"  He  looked  around  the  table  appeal- 
ingly,  but  the  others  had  turned  from  him  to  another 
newcomer,  a  young  man  of  dark  and  sinister  aspect,  whom 
they  greeted  as  Simon  Legree.  Ewing  heard  Eliza's 
despairing  cry,  "  Merciful  Heavens,  the  river  is  choked 
with  ice!"  above  the  deep  baying  of  bloodhounds  that 
issued  from  half  a  dozen  able  throats.  The  newcomer 
was  obliging  enough  to  scowl  and  demand  fiercely, 
"Tom,  you  black  rascal,  ain't  you  mine,  body  and  soul?" 

A  fair-haired  youth  at  the  table,  with  the  face  of  an 
overfed  Cupid,  responded  pleadingly:  "No — no,  Massa! 
Mah  body  may  b'long  to  yo'  but  mah  soul  to  de  good 
Lawd  who  made  it!" 

"Crack!  Crack!  Crack!  Take  that,  you  black  hound, 
and  that,  and  that!"  Uncle  Tom  cringed  under  the 
blows  of  an  imaginary  lash,  and  Legree  seated  himself 
at  the  long  table.  A  bearded  man  at  the  head  promptly 
became  little  Eva,  with  a  piping  voice.  "Uncle  Tom, 
dear  Uncle  Tom,  I  fear  I  am  going  to  die  in  the  last 
act." 

The  faithful  slave  gulped  at  his  claret  and  water  and 
replied  tearfully,  "Dar,  dar,  Miss  Eba,  yo'  bre'k  dis 
pore  ole  man's  heart!" 

"And,  dear  Uncle  Tom,  remember  that  the  colored 
quartet  will  slink  in  and  sing  'Rock  of  Ages'  while  I  am 
dying  on  a  camp  bed  in  the  parlor.  Think  of  that,  you 
black  hound!" 

"  Indeed,  that  is  what  I  am  apprehending,  Miss  St. 
Clair,"  returned  Uncle  Tom,  this  time  in  polished  accents 
and  with  marked  urbanity.  "And  you  are  doubtless 
aware  that  I  shall  have  to  be  present  and  listen  to  it. 
Come,  then,  little  one !  If  you  must  die,  come  with  me 
into  the  back  yard  where  the  quartet  can't  find  us,  and 


Ewing's  Lady 

I  will  feed  you  to  the  nice  hungry  bloodhounds.  They've 
had  nothing  since  tea." 

Bwing  listened,  aghast.  He  had  once  gone  with 
Ben  in  Durango  to  see  "Uncle  Tom's  Cabin,"  and  both 
of  them  had  wept  at  its  heartrending  crisis.  It  embar- 
rassed him  now  to  hear  its  pathos  blasphemed,  embar- 
rassed him  because  he  felt  a  sort  of  shamed  mirth.  He 
was  glad  that  Ben  was  not  by. 

Piersoll  and  his  publisher  still  discussed  literature. 
Layton  was  now  setting  forth  the  superior  state  of  the 
latter-day  author  over  those  of  the  past. 

"  Those  old  fellows  had  no  market — publishers  were  a 
sleepy  lot.  Think  what  could  have  been  done  with  'Par- 
adise Lost,'  illustrated  by  Hulston  with  about  fifty  half 
tones  and  marginal  decorations,  and  an  elegant  binding, 
properly  advertised  with  testimonials  from  clergymen 
and  leading  actresses  and  senators  and  prominent  col- 
lege presidents.  I  tell  you,  gentlemen,"  he  concluded, 
earnestly,  "this  is  the  golden  age  of  letters!" 

This  phrase  unhappily  reaching  the  big  table  in  a 
moment  of  quiet,  made  an  instant  sensation. 

"The  golden  age  of  letters!"  was  echoed  in  concert 
by  eight  men  who  arose  solemnly  and  bowed  to  the 
embarrassed  Layton.  He  tried  to  smile  tolerantly,  as 
if  he  knew  a  joke  when  he  saw  one.  They  sat  down 
and  turned  to  stare  at  him  with  extravagant  awe,  catch- 
ing his  eye  when  they  could  and  drinking  to  the  golden 
age.  Piersoll  grinned  cheerfully  at  them.  Ewing 
was  puzzled. 

"I  like  this  place  for  its  literary  atmosphere,"  said 
one  loudly,  gazing  over  the  head  of  Lay  ton.  "Don't 
you  all  just  love  literature?"  "Oh,  I  simply  adore  it!" 
answered  the  next  man.  "I  really  can't  say  what  I 

116 


A  Night  at  the  Monastery 

should  do  without  books.  I  think  they  improve  the 
mind." 

Now  they  hitched  their  chairs  about  so  that  they 
could  regard  Layton  more  easily,  though  they  affected 
to  be  unconscious  of  his  presence. 

"It  does  seem  to  me  that  literature  is  good  to  read," 
ventured  another  conservatively,  "but  then,  /  love 
music  and  flowers  and  the  little  birds." 

"I  should  die  without  literature,"  insisted  another — 
"it's  so  good  and  excellent.  Oh,  why  do  not  more 
people  read  literature  and  be  decent!" 

"Now  you  take  Henry  James,"  began  another, 
judicially,  "  he's  a  bright  writer,  but  he  can't  touch  the 
great  throbbing  heart  of  the  public  like  Hall  Caine  can." 

"What  is  a  Hall  Caine  can?"  demanded  the  whisk- 
ered person  bluntly.  "  I  thought  they  kept  'em  in  jars." 

Layton  rose,  genially  bidding  his  host  and  Ewing 
good  night.  The  men  at  the  long  table  rose  with  him, 
bowed  ceremoniously,  and  chanted  "the  golden  age  of 
letters"  as  he  passed — all  but  one,  who  sobbed  bitterly 
because  poor  Shakespeare  had  not  lived  to  see  it. 

Ewing  was  still  dazed,  but  he  had  slowly  been  growing 
cheerful.  He  felt  that  he  could  almost  understand  this 
strange  fooling.  He  would  have  been  glad  to  observe 
it  still  from  a  distance,  but  Piersoll  took  him  to  the  long 
table  when  Layton  had  gone.  The  others  made  room 
for  them,  and  Ewing  responded  somewhat  timidly  to 
the  introductions  that  Piersoll  performed.  He  was  a  lit- 
tle anxious  lest  he  be  made  a  part  or  target  of  their  sport 
and  show  himself  awkward  under  the  ordeal.  For  the 
moment,  however,  there  were  remarks  about  the  unde- 
sirability  of  "tradesmen"  as  guests  of  the  club. 

"I  know  a  lovely  delicatessen  merchant,"  said  one 
117 


Swing's  Lady 

brightly,  "a  most  interesting  person.  He  says  this 
is  the  golden  age  of  cooked  provisions.  I  must  have 
him  round  the  next  time  Lay  ton  is  brought  in." 

"I  can  get  a  plumber  from  over  on  Eighth  Avenue," 
volunteered  another.  "We  might  have  a  'trade' 
night,  if  Layton  will  come.  Of  course  they'll  talk  about 
nothing  but  how  to  sell  their  wares,  but  they'll  have  a 
good  time  together." 

Presently  they  forsook  this  theme,  and  Ewing  found 
himself  talking  to  Chalmers,  an  illustrator  with  whose 
work  he  had  long  been  familiar.  Though  Chalmers  drew 
Western  subjects,  Ewing  was  amazed  at  his  confession 
that  he  had  never  been  west  of  Jersey  City.  Chalmers, 
on  the  other  hand,  was  delighted  to  learn  that  Ewing 
had  so  long  been  a  part  of  that  life  which  he  had  por- 
trayed from  afar,  and  was  at  once  profuse  with  offers 
of  help  when  Ewing  explained  his  situation.  He  was 
eager  to  see  his  work,  and  would  install  him  in  a  studio. 

"I  know  the  place  for  you,"  he  exclaimed,  after  a 
moment's  reflection.  "There's  a  vacant  studio  in  our 
building  on  Forty-second  Street.  Billy  Glynn  told  me 
to  sublet  it  and  sell  the  stuff  the  first  chance  I  had. 
You  can  move  in  right  off  if  you  like  it." 

Ewing  thanked  him  warmly.  It  was  pleasant  to 
find  that  the  recent  Simon  Degree  had  his  human  side. 
Two  of  the  other  men  at  the  table  had  studios  in  the 
same  building:  Crandall,  who  made  pictures  for  a 
comic  weekly,  and  Baldwin,  who  was  a  magazine  illus- 
trator. They  became,  like  Chalmers,  solicitous  to 
oblige  the  newcomer,  and  were  attentive  to  Piersoll 
when  he  praised,  with  a  quick  word  or  two,  the  draw- 
ings of  Ewing.  He  felt  immensely  drawn  to  these 
men  who  had  dropped  their  bantering  to  be  kind  to  him. 

1x8 


A  Night  at  the  Monastery 

The  crowd  of  diners  had  thinned  out  until  only  a 
few  lingered  over  their  coffee.  From  one  or  another 
of  these  scattered  groups  would  come  a  burst  of  laughter 
at  the  climax  of  a  story,  or  a  bar  of  song  from  one  who 
had  reached  his  playtime  of  the  day,  and  recked  not 
if  he  advertised  this.  It  was  an  hour  of  ease  in  the 
Monastery,  when  its  inmates  expanded  in  the  knowledge 
that  Sunday  lay  before  them.  To  some,  at  least,  this 
could  be  a  day  of  rest. 

A  musical  member  came  from  the  rear  room  to  the 
piano  near  the  long  table  to  play  a  Liszt  rhapsody. 
When  this  performer  had  gone  back  to  his  seat  one  of 
the  men  from  the  big  table — he  who  had  lately  enacted 
Little  Eva,  and  whose  title  of  "The  Brushwood  Boy" 
Ewing  at  once  related  to  his  beard — seated  himself  at 
the  instrument. 

"  Heard  a  great  song  over  on  Third  Avenue  last 
night,"  he  began.  "Wish  I  could  remember — some- 
thing like  this — "  His  fingers  searched  for  the  melody. 
Ewing  caught  a  transient  strain  of  it  and  thrilled  to 
recognize  Ben's  favorite,  a  thing  he  might  be  singing 
to  his  guitar  in  the  far-off  lonely  cabin  at  that  very 
moment. 

" '  The  Fatal  Wedding,' "  he  ventured  to  the  performer. 

"Sure— that's  it!  'The  Fatal  Wedding.'  Wish  you 
fellows  could  have  heard  it — rich!  How  did  it  go, 
now?" 

Ewing  recklessly  hummed  the  opening  bars. 

"Go  ahead,  if  you  know  it!"  This  came  from 
several  of  the  men.  He  protested.  He  would  have 
liked  to  sing  it,  yet  feared  to  do  so  before  an  audience 
whose  ridicule  he  had  learned  to  dread.  He  considered 
the  song  to  be  irreproachable  and  could  understand 

119 


Ewing's  Lady 

the   apparent   enthusiasm   about   it,    but    he    doubted 
his  worth  as  a  vocalist. 

"  I  don't  believe  I'd  better  try  it,"  he  began;  "  I  know 
the  words — it's  the  favorite  song  of  an  old-time  cowboy 
I've  lived  with,  and  he  does  it  right.  I  couldn't  give 
anything  more  than  a  poor  imitation  of  him." 

The  inciting  calls  were  renewed. 

"Go  on!  Do  your  worst!  Show  us  how  your  friend 
does  it!  Silence  in  the  back  of  the  hall!" 

Piersoll  smiled  encouragingly  and  the  accompanist 
struck  the  opening  chords,  having  at  last  recalled  the 
air.  Ewing  diffidently  took  his  place  at  the  end  of 
the  piano,  with  apologetic  protests.  "I'll  do  my  best, 
but  you  should  hear  Ben  Crider  sing  this." 

The  little  audience  listened  with  unfeigned  delight 
as  he  sang  of  the  handsome  stranger  who  wooed  the 
village  beauty,  only  to  desert  her  for  "a  lady  proud 
and  haughty"  who  had  "houses,  jewels,  land,  and 
gold  at  her  command."  The  words  moved  his  hearers. 
Had  he  not  promised  them  to  render  the  song  in  his 
friend's  manner?  They  felt  he  was  achieving  this 
with  rare  art.  Almost  unconsciously,  indeed,  he  sang 
the  song  in  Ben's  best  manner,  with  a  sob  in  the  voice 
and  even  with  Ben's  strained,  sad  face  as  he  reached 
the  pitiful  climax: 

"  While  they  were  honeymooning  in  a  mansion  on  the  hill, 
Kind  friends  were  laying  Nellie  out  behind  the  mill." 

He  moved  quickly  back  to  his  chair  almost  before 
the  first  shouts  of  laughter  dismayed  him.  He  blushed 
and  glanced  appealingly  from  face  to  face  as  the  applause 
was  swelled  by  the  groups  in  the  rear  room.  He  and 
Ben  had  considered  this  no  song  to  be  laughed  at. 
It  was  too  sad.  Yet  he  saw  that  the  applause  was  a 

1 20 


A  Night  at  the  Monastery 

friendly  tribute  to  his  performance.  Piersoll  was 
pounding  him  joyously  between  the  shoulders  and  Chal- 
mers was  urging  him  to  do  Ben  Crider  singing  the 
"Fatal  Wedding"  at  their  next  club  smoker.  Baldwin 
demanded  the  last  verse  again,  and  Ewing  sang  it,  from 
his  chair  this  time,  redoubling  his  efforts  to  bring  out 
its  pathos. 

In  the  new  applause  that  deafened  him  he  felt  re- 
assured. At  least  they  were  not  laughing  at  him.  He 
joined  weakly  in  the  merriment.  The  gods  had  blessed 
him  with  a  gift  for  silence  at  critical  moments.  He 
asked  no  questions. 

As  the  mirth  subsided  voices  were  heard  unctuously 
rehearsing  choice  lines  from  the  song.  A  passion  for 
the  ballad  pathetic  had  been  aroused.  Some  one 
called  on  Chalmers. 

"Chalmers  has  written  a  song  himself — give  it  to 
us,  Chalmers — the  one  you  sang  up  at  Needham's  the 
other  night."  Chalmers  took  his  place  and  bowed  low 
as  the  accompanist  poised  eager  hands  above  the 
key-board. 

"Gentlemen,  with  your  kind  attention,  I'll  give  you 
a  little  thing  called  'Nothing  but  Mother' — words  and 
music  by  a  party  that  doesn't  want  his  real  name  known 
because  the  folks  back  home  might  hear  of  it.  Let  her 
go,  Professor!" 

In  a  twangy,  nasal  voice,  not  unlike  Ben's,  enun- 
ciating his  words  with  the  fastidious  and  strained  pre- 
cision of  the  music-hall  balladist,  he  began: 

"  The  courtroom,  it  was  crowded, 

All  the  witnesses  was  there; 
The  Judge  he  sat  a-frowning 
In  his  highly  cushioned  chair. 

9  121 


Ewing's  Lady 


They  was  trying  a  old  lady 

For  the  stealing  of  a  horse; 
They  had  hauled  her  to  the  station, 

They  had  dragged  her  there  by  force!" 

The  last  line  had  been  achieved  with  intense,  pas- 
sionate emphasis.  Ewing,  listening  intently,  felt  the 
pricking  of  a  nameless  suspicion.  The  song  seemed 
right  enough,  and  yet  some  queer,  ulterior  emotion 
stirred  within  him.  The  air  continued  in  a  stirring 
minor,  adapted  to  the  dramatic  action: 

"  Then  uprose  a  handsome  lawyer, 

But  would  not  give  his  name; 
He  defended  this  old  lady 

And  well  he  done  the  same. 
The  verdict  was  "Not  guilty!" 

Tears  stood  in  the  jury's  eyes; 
When  the  unknown  lawyer  heard  it, 

Then  says  he  to  their  surprise:" 

With  secret  consternation  Ewing  waited,  trying  to 
laugh  with  the  others,  who  had  exploded  at  "tears" 
wrenched  out  in  a  high  minor  wail.  The  air  now  took 
a  graceful  swinging  waltz  movement,  and  the  puzzled 
youth  suffered  an  illumining  flash: 

"  She  was  my  mother  once 

In  days  of  long  ago; 
I'll  not  forsake  her  now, 

Her  lots  has  fell  so  low. 
I  have  other  mothers  now 

To  take  me  by  the  hand, 
But  I'll  not  desert  this  one 

Just  because  I'm  rich  and  grand." 

Enlightened  at  last,  Ewing  joined  in  the  applause, 
amid  which  Chalmers  resumed  his  seat.  Instantly 
perceiving  why  they  had  laughed  at  his  own  song,  he 

122 


A  Night  at  the  Monastery 

burned  at  recalling  how  chance  alone  had  saved  him 
from  betraying  a  simple-hearted  faith  in  the  virtues 
of  that  gem.  Now  it  was  funny,  even  to  him.  Other 
songs  of  Ben's  rang  in  his  ears;  they  were  all  funny — 
though  he  must  never  let  Ben  know  that.  He  had 
unwittingly  betrayed  Ben  to  a  ribald  crew,  but  he  had 
learned  a  thing  it  was  well  to  know.  He  had  learned 
of  the  world ;  he  had  aged  in  a  leap. 

They  sat  late  at  table,  drinking  beer  from  stone 
mugs,  smoking  long-stemmed  pipes  and  trifling  with 
song.  They  blended  their  voices  in  melting  harmony 
at  the  climax  of  "Nelly's"  woe  and  in  the  acuter  parts 
of  "Nothing  but  Mother." 

As  they  drifted  out  at  midnight  Chalmers  made  an 
appointment  with  Ewing  to  inspect  the  vacant  studio 
and  make  himself,  if  he  liked,  one  of  the  colony  of  not 
too  serious  workers  housed  by  the  Rookery. 

Half  a  dozen  men  strolled  with  him  to  the  Stuyvesant, 
and  in  the  shadow  of  its  sober  doors,  as  a  parting  test- 
imonial to  his  worth,  they  sang  once  more  in  blended 
pathos: 

"  She  was  my  moth-e-r-r  once 
In  days  so  long  a-g-o-o-o!" 

He  watched  them  up  the  street  a  block,  pouring 
out  their  hearts  in  song  to  a  watchful  and  cynical  police- 
man. 


123 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE   NEW   MEMBER 

WHEN  Ewing,  a  few  days  later,  moved  into 
the  vacant  studio  on  the  top  floor  of  the 
Rookery,  the  men  there  made  an  affair  of  it, 
flocking  from  their  studios  to  receive  him.  They  showed 
him  the  view  from  his  windows,  a  far  stretch  of  dull- 
red  roofs,  with  murky  water  butts  stuck  aloft  like 
giant  cockades  against  the  gray  sky.  They  showed 
him  where  he  would  sleep,  in  a  little  closet-like  alcove 
screened  from  the  big  room  by  a  gay  curtain.  They 
exhibited  the  alcohol  lamp  left  by  Glynn,  over  which 
water  would  be  boiled  for  the  morning  coffee.  And 
they  superintended,  from  their  wider  experience,  the 
arrangement  of  his  belongings. 

He  felt  aloof  from  the  friendly  turmoil,  unable  to 
believe  that  the  place  would  be  his  own.  The  thing 
was  too  vast  for  his  experience.  It  would  surely  be  for 
another  that  Baldwin  spread  the  Navajo  blankets  on 
the  floor  and  couch;  for  some  one  else  that  Chalmers, 
of  the  beard — him  they  called  the  Brushwood  Boy  or 
eke  "the  human  ambush" — removed  piles  of  old 
magazines  from  the  cot  in  the  alcove;  for  some  one  else 
that  Dallas  tucked  brushes  into  a  ginger  jar;  and  for  some 
one  else  that  Griggs  tested  water  taps  and  the  radiator. 

When  they  had  cheerfully  discovered  that  no  one 
could  think  of  anything  further  to  do  they  trooped  down 
Broadway  to  celebrate  Ewing's  advent  in  a  dinner 

124 


The  New  Member 


at  the  Monastery.  When  this  was  over  and  the  crowd 
had  thinned  to  a  few  late  sitters  they  had  him  do  a 
picture.  The  others  watched  him  as  he  worked,  stand- 
ing on  a  bare  table  drawn  to  the  wall.  Brother  Hilarius 
grew  before  their  eyes,  insecurely  astride  a  bucking 
broncho,  narrowly  observed  by  two  figures  in  the 
background — a  dismayed  brother  of  his  order  in  gown 
of  frieze  and  hempen  girdle,  and  Red  Phinney,  contort- 
ing himself  in  ribald  glee. 

The  watchers  applauded  as  the  picture  grew.  They 
had  not  supposed  that  the  quiet,  almost  timid,  boy, 
who  betrayed  his  unsophistication  by  countless  little 
mannerisms,  could  have  attained  the  sureness  of  line 
his  strokes  revealed. 

The  heated  air  of  the  room  rushed  up  to  make  a  torrid 
zone  of  the  region  about  the  worker's  head,  and  from 
time  to  time  one  of  the  watchers  handed  him  a  mug  of 
creaming  ale  with  which  he  washed  the  dust  of  the  char- 
coal from  his  throat.  He  lost  himself  in  the  work  at 
last.  The  voices,  laughter,  songs,  strains  of  the  piano, 
came  but  faintly  to  him,  and  were  as  the  echoes  of 
street  life  that  sounded  in  his  ears  each  night  before  he 
slept.  It  was  after  one  o'clock  when  he  stepped  down 
from  the  table  to  survey  the  finished  drawing. 

He  knew  he  had  done  well,  but  he  was  glad  to  be  told 
so  by  others.  It  was  clearly  their  opinion  that  the  club 
had  in  no  way  descended  from  its  high  standards  of 
mural  decoration.  Baldwin  brought  a  bottle  of  fixa- 
tive and  sprayed  the  drawing  through  a  blowpipe. 
Then  they  drained  a  final  bumper  to  the  artist  and 
the  work  and  went  out  into  the  mild  September  night, 
making  the  empty  street,  sleeping  in  shadow,  resound 
to  their  noisy  talk. 

12$ 


Ewing's  Lady 

The  light  of  a  car  crept  ghostlike  toward  them  and 
they  stood  to  board  it.  As  it  moved  on  through  Broad- 
way Ewing  thought  of  an  empty  creek  bed  at  the  bottom 
of  some  ravine  at  home.  This  was  the  dry  time,  but 
with  earliest  dawn  would  come  the  freshet,  flooding 
the  canon,  surging  over  its  rocky  bed  to  some  outlet 
as  mysterious  as  its  source.  The  image  brought  him 
a  sudden  pang  of  homesickness.  Despite  the  jovial 
friendliness  of  the  crowd  he  was  still  a  detached  spec- 
tator. There  was  no  intimacy  for  him,  no  real  contact. 
He  was  glad  to  remember  the  bed  that  awaited  him  and 
confessed  this  to  Chalmers. 

"Bed!"  echoed  Chalmers  in  righteous  amazement. 
"  What's  the  use  of  going  to  bed  ?  You  only  fall  asleep ! " 

"He's  right,  old  man,"  put  in  Baldwin  warningly. 
"  I've  tried  it." 

Dallas  turned  a  reproachful  gaze  on  Bwing.  "God 
has  given  you  a  beautiful  life  and  you  sleep  it  away! 
Come,  come,  man!" 

"We'll  have  a  bite  to  eat,  anyway,"  broke  in  Griggs. 
"Come  on,  here's  Clayton's." 

They  were  presently  about  a  table  far  back  in  a 
restaurant  where  lingered  many  sitters-up  of  nights. 
They  ordered  Welsh  rabbits  and  ale.  Ewing  refused 
the  ale  and  drank  water. 

Dallas  put  on  an  air  of  wishing  to  defend  this  choice 
of  beverage.  "Of  course,  it's  the  stuff  that  made 
Noah  famous,"  he  submitted. 

"Yes — and  it  made  all  that  trouble  at  Johnstown, 
too,"  broke  in  Chalmers  with  deep  hostility  in  his  look 
at  Ewing's  glass.  "I  can't  forget  that.  Water  has 
never  been  the  same  to  me  since." 

They  fell  to  the  food  when  it  came.  They  smoked, 
126 


The  New  Member 


they  drank  more  ale,  they  sang  in  tones  enough  subdued 
to  avert  public  disfavor,  and  they  flung  jests  about  to 
spice  the  endless  gossip  of  their  craft. 

Ewing  listened,  yet  with  eager  eyes  for  the  people 
at  other  tables  about  them.  These  men  and  women 
captivated  him  by  their  suggestions  of  mystery — char- 
acters in  the  play  he  was  forever  beholding — curious- 
looking  men  whose  faces  suggested  lives  of  dramatic 
tension;  beautiful  women,  splendidly  arrayed,  with  much 
of  mystery  and  something  of  daring  in  their  animation. 
He  scanned  them  all  furtively  as  the  talk  at  his  own  table 
flowed  on. 

It  was  chiefly  of  their  work  that  they  talked.  Chal- 
mers related  matters  exposing  the  inefficiency  of  an  art 
editor  to  whose  mercies  fate  now  and  then  betrayed 
him.  Chalmers  bitterly  thought  that  this  person  should 
be  driving  an  ice  wagon  or  helping  about  in  a  shipyard, 
or  something  of  the  sort — not  telling  artists  how  to 
draw  their  pictures. 

Baldwin  sympathized.  He  had  his  own  art  editor. 
It  came  out  that  no  man  present  had  ever  even  heard 
of  a  competent  art  editor.  It  stood  to  reason  that  there 
could  be  none.  A  man  of  capacity  to  be  an  art  editor 
would  have  too  much  self-respect.  He  would  starve 
in  the  gutter  first.  But  it  took  time  and  talk  and 
replenished  mugs  to  reduce  this  truth  to  its  beautiful, 
naked  simplicity,  and  Ewing  at  last  saw  that  day  had 
come.  The  lights  inside  were  paling  to  an  unwhole- 
some yellow.  He  mentioned  the  circumstance  insinuat- 
ingly, for  he  was  tired. 

Baldwin  scowled  at  his  watch,  then  dropped  it  into 
his  fresh  mug  of  ale,  and  glanced  triumphantly  about 
the  table. 

127 


Ewing's  Lady 

"A  degenerate  race,"  muttered  Chalmers.  "At  the 
first  sign  of  daylight  we  scamper  off  to  bed  like 
scared  rabbits.  For  me — thank  God — there's  nothing 
like  the  glorious  sunrise,  the  crisp  air,  the  healthy 
glow.  There's  magic  in  it — Nature's  choicest  gift. 
Yes,  sir,  the  splendors  of  dawn  for  me!  D'you  s'pose 
I'd  miss  this?"  He  glared  about  the  room  and  ecstatic- 
ally sniffed  the  thick,  smoky  air.  "What  does  that 
clod  know  of  beauty?"  He  indicated  a  waiter,  dozing 
against  the  wall  with  practiced  equilibrium. 

"Well,  well,"  exclaimed  Baldwin,  "if  I  haven't  gone 
and  forgotten  to  eat  breakfast!  How  shiftless!"  He 
aroused  the  waiter  with  snapping  fingers.  "  I  hope  we're 
not  keeping  you  up,  Claude,  but  bacon  and  eggs,  please, 
and  coffee." 

An  hour  later  they  went  out  to  find  the  street  already 
alive  with  early  workers.  Baldwin  appeared  to  consider 
that  these,  also,  were  night-long  revelers. 

"'Stonishing  how  they  can  keep  it  up,  night  after 
night,"  he  remarked,  frowning  in  wonder  at  the  early 
procession.  "You'd  think  they'd  have  to  sleep  some 
time." 

"  It'll  tell  on  their  nerves  sooner  or  later,  you  mark 
my  words,"  said  Griggs  sententiously. 

Chalmers  stared  intently  into  the  window  of  a  florist 
adjoining  the  restaurant.  He  turned  to  them  with 
purpose  in  his  fair  face  and  spoke  again  of  his  art  editor. 

"Only  trouble  with  him — he's  passed  away,  poor  fel- 
low, and  doesn't  know  it.  He  ought  to  be  told — but 
not  brutally.  I  see  something  here  for  him." 

He  came  out  of  the  florist's  presently  with  a  sizable 
emblem  of  mortality — a  floral  pillow  with  "  Rest"  worked 
on  it  in  immortelles. 

128 


The  New  Member 


."Come  on!" 

At  the  corner  they  crowded  into  hansoms.  It  was 
a  long  ride,  and  Ewing  was  asleep  when  they  reached 
Park  Row,  but  they  aroused  him  to  help  escort  Chal- 
mers and  his  offering  to  the  elevator  of  a  mighty  building. 
While  they  awaited  his  return  Baldwin  bethought  him 
of  his  own  art  editor.  He  seemed  to  believe  that  some- 
thing fitting  might  be  done.  After  deep  reflection  he 
crossed  the  narrow  street  to  a  district  messenger  office, 
to  emerge  a  moment  later  followed  by  eight  grinning 
messenger  boys.  These  he  led  to  the  elevator  of  another 
building  near  by. 

Chalmers  returned  from  his  own  mission,  wiping  his 
eyes. 

"  Poor  fellow,  he  knows  he's  dead  now.  But  I  broke 
down  and  sobbed  like  a  child  when  I  gave  it  to  him — 
I'm  all  heart.  It's  over  now,  all  but  the  life  insurance. 
And  yet  he  didn't  thank  me.  On  the  contrary  he  spoke 
language  I  should  blush  to  repeat." 

The  others  put  on  looks  of  chastened  gloom  and  were 
speaking  in  hushed  tones  of  the  sad  event  when  Baldwin 
returned.  He  dismissed  his  uniformed  attendants  with 
largesse. 

"Thing  that  needed  to  be  done  for  his  own  good," 
he  explained.  "Max  believes  he's  an  art  editor,  but 
nobody  else  does — nobody  else  ever  believed  it  in  this 
whole  wide,  beautiful  world.  So  I  lined  those  trusting 
little  boys  up  in  front  of  his  door  and  said,  'Boys,  look 
in  there  and  you  will  see  a  real  art  editor.'  They  looked 
in  at  old  Max  and  then  at  me.  'You  believe  it,  don't 
you,  boys?'  I  asked  them,  and  they  all  said,  'Yes,  sir!' 
So  I  made  them  bow  to  him  and  say  in  concert,  'We 
do  believe  you  are  an  art  editor,  no  matter  what  other 

129 


Ewing's  Lady 

people  say,'  and  then  we  left.  We  had  to.  I'm  ashamed 
to  tell  you — but  old  Max  seemed  to  forget  that  he  was 
a  gentleman.  He'll  thank  me  when  he  conies  to  his 
senses,  all  the  same.  He  can  lay  his  head  on  his  pillow 
to-night  knowing  that  there  are  others  in  the  world 
besides  himself  who  believe  he's  an  art  editor.  Oh, 
I  love  to  do  good!"  he  concluded  with  a  benevolent 
smirk. 

Once  more  they  were  in  the  hansoms  and  Ewing 
slept  again,  to  the  strains  of  "  I  have  other  mothers  now," 
sung  by  Baldwin,  who  sat  in  his  lap. 

As  they  climbed  the  stairs  of  the  Rookery  Baldwin 
found  the  moment  suited  for  sage  counsel  to  Chalmers. 

"'T  won't  do,  my  boy — 't  won't  do!  Can't  burn 
candles  both  ends.  Your  face  this  minute  looks  like  one 
of  those  cheap  apple  pies  in  a  restaurant  window." 

Ewing  mounted  to  his  own  floor  and  found  himself  in 
the  curious  stillness  of  the  big  room.  It  had  seemed  to 
wait  there  for  him,  mutely,  but  with  desire.  He  stood 
a  moment  in  the  silence,  his  ears  ringing  with  after  sounds 
of  the  night.  He  fell  on  the  couch,  too  tired  to  go  for- 
mally to  bed,  and  felt  himself  falling  into  sleep  as  into 
a  beneficent  and  welcoming  abyss. 


130 


CHAPTER  XIII 

SEARCHING   THE   WILDERNESS 

HE  awoke  from  a  dream  noisy  with  laughter  and 
the  ring  of  shod  hoofs  on  a  stone  roadway; 
a  phantasma  in  which  faces  were  gray  and 
distorted  through  smoke  and  people  did  wild  things 
in  sane  ways.  He  lay  long  enough  to  separate  the  fiction 
of  this  dream  from  the  actual  but  not  more  credible 
performances  of  the  night  before.  Then  he  rose,  yawning 
away  the  last  of  his  drowsiness,  and  looked  out  over  the 
roofs.  He  saw  that  it  was  late  afternoon,  for  the  shadows 
of  the  water  butts  ran  well  to  the  east.  The  mute 
solitude  of  the  scene  gave  his  loneliness  a  new  pang.  He 
felt  more  solitary  in  the  multitude  than  he  had  ever 
felt  in  his  unpeopled  hills.  Yet  the  place  still  lured  him, 
not  less  than  in  days  when  he  had  hungered  for  it, 
a  starved  lover  of  life  in  the  desert.  If  only  he  could 
find  some  one  to  come  near,  some  one  to  whom  he  could 
be  his  unguarded  self.  Such  a  one  must  exist. 

His  eyes  swept  the  reticent  roofs,  and  his  mind  searched 
beneath  them:  what  felicitous  possibilities  did  they  not 
conceal?  People  doubtless  fasting  like  himself,  longing 
for  the  friendly  cry,  eating  their  hearts  out  in  loneliness — 
men  and  women  he  might  know  or  never  know.  He 
lifted  each  roof  as  he  gazed;  under  any  one  of  them 
might  be  the  companion ;  under  all  were  charms  of  adven- 
turous search. 

In  this  moment  of  homesick  longing  his  mind  caught 


Ewing's  Lady 


at  Mrs.  Laithe.  She  had  told  him  to  come  soon.  Did 
that  mean  in  one  day,  or  in  ten?  She  was  his  one  link 
with  an  old  life  that  had  filled  if  it  did  not  satisfy.  And 
sometimes  she  had  met  him.  Chiefly  she  had  been  a 
woman  for  the  eyes,  but  there  had  been  fleeting  times 
when  they  touched  in  ways  that  brought  him  a  deeper 
satisfaction — times  when  invisible  antennae  from  each 
seemed  to  be  in  communicative  contact.  These  mo- 
ments brought  back  the  palsy  of  shyness  that  had 
stricken  him  at  his  first  glimpses  of  her;  yet  they 
brought,  too,  some  potent,  strange  essence  that  sus- 
tained him.  He  resolved  to  go  to  her  now.  She  mysti- 
fied, she  dismayed  him,  but  her  kindness  was  de- 
pendable. 

It  was  the  memory  of  this  that  moved  him  to  throw 
off  his  stale,  smoke-saturated  garments,  to  bathe,  to 
dress  himself  afresh,  and  to  walk  briskly  through  the 
tonic  sharpness  of  a  September  afternoon. 

As  he  rang  the  bell  a  vague,  delightful  home-coming 
warmth  rushed  over  him. 

"  In  a  moment  I  shall  see  her,"  he  said  within  himself. 
As  the  door  swung  back  he  heard  the  din  of  many  voices 
and  caught  a  rush  of  heated  air,  sweetish  with  the  odor, 
as  it  seemed,  of  tired  and  fainting  flowers.  At  the 
entrance  to  the  drawing  room  he  faltered,  for  the  place 
was  thronged  with  terrifying  strange  people  who  held 
teacups  and  talked  explosively. 

Longing  to  flee,  he  saw  Mrs.  Laithe  across  the  room, 
turning  somewhat  wearily,  he  thought,  away  from  three 
or  four  voluble  women,  as  if  to  snatch  at  a  moment  of 
rest  from  her  perfunctory  smile.  Almost  instantly  her 
eyes  swung  to  his,  and  he  became  aware,  as  she  started 
toward  him,  of  some  sudden  flurry  leaping  behind  their 

132 


Searching  the  Wilderness 

black-fringed  curtains,  a  quick  play  of  lights  that  stirred 
and  confused  him.  She  gave  him  her  hand  with  half- 
formal  phrases  of  greeting  under  which  he  detected 
a  rising  nervousness. 

"So  good  of  you  to  come,  and  on  my  day!  They're 
tiresome  at  best.  You  are  well?  You  shall  have  tea 
and  know  some  people."  She  went  to  a  table  between 
the  two  rooms,  where  a  girl  in  white  drew  tea  from  a 
samovar  into  many  little  cups.  Ewing  began  to  watch 
this  girl,  a  slight  but  rounded  creature  with  yellowish 
hair  curving  down  either  side  of  her  tanned  face.  He 
caught  a  greenish  light  in  her  eyes,  as  she  bent  to  her 
task  with  a  somewhat  anxious  concentration. 

Mrs.  Laithe  brought  him  the  tea,  which  he  helplessly 
took,  and  presented  him  to  a  vivid-hued  young  matron, 
who  made  room  for  him  beside  her.  His  part  in  the 
talk  that  followed  was  confined  to  mutterings  of  agree- 
ment, tinged  now  and  then  with  a  discreet  sympathy. 
He  heard  the  latest  golf  and  yatching  news  and  sprightly 
chat  of  the  lady's  newest  motor  car.  He  caught  a  blurred 
view  of  the  Austrian  Tyrol,  and  absorbed  technical  data 
on  the  operation  of  smuggling  silk  stockings  from  Paris. 
He  gleaned  that  Airedales  were  difficult  to  raise;  that 
Caruso  would  return;  that  all  coachmen  were  but  hire- 
lings of  the  sales  stables,  when  you  got  at  the  root  of 
the  trouble.  He  learned  that  Newport  had  been  deadly, 
Bar  Harbor  impossible,  Tuxedo  not  half  bad  for  a  week 
end;  and  that  New  York  would  be  empty  for  another 
fortnight. 

Upon  none  of  these  difficult  matters  had  he  anything 
of  moment  to  offer.  The  assertion  that  New  York  was 
empty  bereft  him,  indeed,  of  even  his  slender  power  of 
assent.  The  lady  would  have  considered  him  stupid  but 

133 


Ewing's  Lady 

for  the  look  with  which  he  met  her  quick  eyes  from  time 
to  time.  She  decided  that  he  was  merely  bored — a 
thing  not  to  be  particularly  remarked.  It  was  common 
enough  in  the  men  she  met. 

In  one  of  the  roving  looks  he  permitted  himself  under 
his  companion's  discourse  his  glance  rested  on  two  people 
far  back  in  the  library.  One  was  Mrs.  Laithe's  father. 
He  stood,  cup  in  hand,  talking  down  to  a  smartly 
attired,  whitehaired  woman  who  sat  forward  in  her  chair 
and  stared  at  Ewing.  Her  gown  was  black,  and  one 
white-gloved  hand  rested  on  Bartell's  arm.  Her  eyes 
did  not  waver  as  Ewing  met  them.  He  saw  that  Bartell 
seemed  to  identify  him  in  the  throng  and  speak  a  few 
words  to  the  lady.  Ewing  turned  to  his  companion, 
discomfort  under  that  steady  survey.  A  moment  later 
he  was  drawn  to  look  again  and  saw  Bartell  coming 
toward  him. 

"Ah,  young  man!"  His  greeting  oozed  cordiality, 
the  soothing  friendliness  of  a  man  fitted  to  find  only  the 
pleasantness  of  life. 

"  And  come  with  me,  if  Mrs.  Dudley  will  let  you  off— 
the  lady  smiled  a  pretty  but  unreserved  assent — "an 
old  friend,  Mrs.  Lowndes,  wants  to  know  you.     She's 
a  dear  soul,  always  jolly.     Tell  her  about  cowboys  and 
things,  won't  you — something  pleasant." 

They  stood  before  the  woman  in  the  chair,  and  Bartell 
uttered  a  few  words  which  Ewing  did  not  hear,  for  at  the 
moment  he  had  glanced  up  to  see  Mrs.  Laithe  watching 
him  with  eyes  of  such  genuine  dismay  that  confusion 
overtook  him.  He  wondered  what  wrong  thing  he  could 
have  done,  but  recovered  in  time  to  bow  and  murmur  a 
phrase  of  acknowledgment.  His  new  acquaintance  in- 
dicated a  seat  beside  her,  but  did  not  look  at  him. 

134 


Searching  the  Wilderness 


"Thank  you,  Chris.  Mr.  Bwing  will  entertain  me. 
Run  off  to  someone  as  young  as  yourself." 

Bartell  smiled  himself  back  into  the  more  crowded 
room,  and  Ewing  waited,  apprehending  talk  like  that 
he  had  lately  undergone.  But  he  found  that  this  woman 
who  had  stared  at  him  so  curiously  was  not  voluble. 
For  a  long  time  she  remained  silent.  Once  he  glanced  up 
to  observe  that  her  eyes  were  closed,  and  seized  the 
moment  to  study  her  face.  He  thought  she  was  very 
old — sixty  at  least.  Yet  the  face  showed  strength  in 
its  frailness.  The  cheeks,  looking  brown  under  the  plen- 
teous white  hair,  were  lined  but  not  withered,  and  the 
curve  from  brow  to  chin  revealed  more  than  a  suggestion 
of  self-will.  A  dainty  but  imperious  old  lady  he  thought 
her.  He  might  have  believed  himself  forgotten  but 
for  an  intimation  of  waiting  thrown  out  by  her  manner, 
a  suggestion  of  leaning  toward  him,  breathless,  one  of 
the  gloved  hands  poising  as  if  to  alight  on  his  arm.  He 
found  this  less  tiring  than  the  compulsion  he  had  lately 
been  under  to  agree  with  a  livelier  woman  about  mat- 
ters strange  to  him.  And  yet  he  was  relieved  when  she 
opened  her  eyes  as  if  to  speak.  He  regarded  her  with 
puzzled  but  kind  expectancy.  At  last  she  said,  and  he 
understood  that  her  voice  was  unnaturally  tight  and 
hard: 

"Mr.  Bartell  tells  me  that  you  are  a  painter,  Mr. 
Ewing." 

"I'm  trying  to  be — they  are  very  kind  here." 
"Your  father  was  Gilbert  Ewing — a  painter?" 
"Oh,  you  knew  him?"     He  thrilled  at  the  thought, 
but  was  disappointed. 

"Mr.  Bartell  mentioned  his  name — and  yours." 

"  He  was  a  painter,  yes;  he  died  out  there  in  Colorado." 

135 


Ewing's  Lady 


She  seemed  to  shudder  ever  so  slightly  and  her  eyes 
closed  again. 

"And  your — your  mother?"  The  words  were  hardly 
more  than  a  whisper. 

"My  mother  died  when  I  was  very  small." 

Again  she  seemed  to  wince  under  a  sting.  But  now 
she  fell  away  from  that  waiting  tenseness  with  which 
she  had  held  him.  The  hand  that  had  hovered  over 
his  arm  fell  limply  into  her  lap,  and  she  leaned  back 
in  her  chair. 

"I'm  afraid  you  aren't  very  well,"  he  ventured. 
"The  rooms  are  close." 

She  opened  her  eyes,  with  no  sign  of  having  heard. 
Sitting  forward  in  her  chair  she  gazed  ahead  with 
narrowed  eyes. 

"I  am  an  old  woman  and  dull,  Mr.  Ewing,  but  I 
should  like  to  have  you  come  and  see  me." 

"I'll  be  glad  to  come,"  he  answered  promptly  enough, 
though  he  could  not  keep  surprise  from  his  voice. 

"Come  to-morrow,  if  you  will,  and  pardon  an  old 
woman's  whim  in  asking  you  with  so  little  ceremony." 

"I  will  come,  of  course."  He  wondered  if  she  felt 
a  city  loneliness  like  his  own. 

"Thank  you.  I  shall  be  in  after  four."  She  gave 
him  a  card  from  a  small  silver  case  at  her  belt.  "The 
room  is  close.  You  may  fetch  me  tea." 

He  was  certain  her  eyes  were  sharply  on  him  as  he 
went,  and  when  he  returned,  her  full  gaze  swept  him 
with  a  look  in  which  he  curiously  read  incredulity,  with 
something  beside  that  might  have  been  fear  or  repulsion 
— he  could  not  determine.  She  took  the  tea,  but  set 
it  down  untasted.  A  very  queer  old  lady  he  thought 
her.  He  stood  by  in  embarrassment,  not  knowing 

136 


Searching  the  Wilderness 

what  to  say.  Glancing  about  for  inspiration  he  was 
relieved  to  see  Bartell  bearing  down  upon  him  from 
the  side  of  Mrs.  Laithe.  He  came  up  jovially. 

"I've  been  ordered  to  separate  you  two,  Kitty. 
Young  men  aren't  plentiful  at  this  time,  and  Eleanor 
wants  one." 

"Thank  you  for  bringing  him,  Chris."  She  gave 
Ewing  a  little  nod,  which  he  construed  as  his  release, 
and  he  turned  to  meet  Mrs.  Laithe. 

She  sought  his  eyes  with  that  swift  look  of  appre- 
hension which  had  before  puzzled  him,  and  threw  another 
glance  toward  Mrs.  Lowndes,  who  now  chatted  smilingly 
with  Bartell.  She  seemed  to  be  reassured. 

"I  do  hope  you've  not  been  bored.  No?  I  was 
afraid.  Come  and  meet  my  sister,"  and  she  momentarily 
swept  away  his  memories  of  the  queer  old  lady  by  lead- 
ing him  to  the  girl  in  white  who  poured  tea. 

"Virgie,  this  is  Mr.  Ewing." 

The  girl  looked  up  with  that  hint  of  shyness  he  had 
before  observed  in  her.  The  eyes  instantly  recalled 
his  own  mountain  lake  when  the  light  showed  it  to  far, 
green  depths.  But  they  fell  at  once,  for  she  inclined  her 
head  toward  him,  seized  a  cup  and  demanded  sternly, 
"Cream  or  lemon — I  mean  I'm  very  glad  to  know  you. 
Do  you  take  sugar?" 

In  his  own  embarrassment  he  would  have  told  her, 
but  Mrs.  Laithe  broke  in  with  her  low  laugh. 

"He  doesn't  want  tea,  child,  he  only  wants " 

The  girl  interrupted  defensively,  with  a  flutter  of 
eyelids  toward  Ewing:  "I  can't  remember  what  they 
like  when  they  come  back  the  second  time.  It's  too 
much  to  expect." 

"Your   martyrdom   is   over,    dear.     No   one    wants 

10  137 


Ewing's  Lady 

more  tea,  and  most  of  them  are  escaping.  Talk  to  Mr. 
Ewing  while  I  speed  them." 

The  girl  sank  wearily  into  a  chair,  with  a  rueful 
glance  at  the  table's  disarray  of  cups  and  plates. 

"I'll  dream  about  tea  to-night."  Her  hands  met 
disconsolately  in  her  lap. 

"I  suppose  there  was  a  lot  of  it,"  Ewing  replied 
sympathetically. 

"Why  do  they  do  so  many  insane  things  here?" 
demanded  the  girl.  "They're  always  at  something. 
Town  is  tiresome." 

"But  don't  you  live  here?" 

"Dear  no!  I  went  to  live  with  mamma's  sister  up  in 
New  Hampshire  when  I  was  small,  after  mamma  died. 
There  was  no  one  here  to  raise  me.  And  now  that  I'm 
raised  they  want  me  back,  but  I  shy  at  things  so — dad 
says  I'm  not  city  broke.  I  shall  hold  off  another  year 
before  I  get  into  this  sort  of  thing — "  She  waved  an 
ably  disparaging  hand  toward  the  backs  of  several 
unsuspecting  people  who  lingered.  Then  she  looked 
up  to  meet  his  laugh  and  laughed  prettily  with  him. 
The  two  had  found  common  ground  by  some  free- 
masonry of  the  shy. 

"Does  it  seem  like  a  play  to  you,  too?"  he  asked; 
"everyone  playing  a  part  and  making  you  wonder  how 
it's  coming  out?" 

"Well" — she  debated — "I  used  to  have  that,  when 
I  was  at  school  and  came  here  for  holiday  times.  I  was 
always  expecting  great  things  to  happen  then.  But 
they  never  did.  You'll  be  disappointed  if  you  expect 
them.  Everybody  rides  down  Broadway  in  the  morning 
and  back  again  at  night,  and  they  make  such  a  fuss 
about  it  that  you  think  something  worth  while  is  coming 

138 


Searching  the  Wilderness 

off,  but  it  doesn't.  I  know."  She  achieved  this  with 
an  air  of  mellowed  cynicism  that  almost  won  his  respect. 

"But  things  must  happen  where  there's  so  much 
life,"  he  insisted. 

"You're  very  young,  aren't  you?"  she  retorted. 
"Quite  a  boy,  I  should  think.  Sister  said  so.  You'll 
see,  though.  It  isn't  one  bit  more  a  happening  life 
than  ours  up  at  Kensington.  Yours  must  have  been 
the  happening  life,  there  in  the  West.  Tell  me  about 
Clarence.  Is  he  a  real  cowboy  yet?  He  says  he's 
a  real  one,  but  I  couldn't  believe  it.  Those  I  saw  in 
the  Wild  West  show  looked  as  if  they'd  had  to  study 
it  a  long  time.  Can  Clarence  lasso  a  wild  cow  yet?" 
She  leaned  toward  him  with  friendly  curiosity.  They 
were  amazed  half  an  hour  later  when  they  looked  up 
to  find  Mrs.  Laithe  standing  by  them,  the  only  other  oc- 
cupant of  the  room. 

"You  must  come  oftener,"  urged  Mrs.  Laithe.  Her 
sister  gave  him  her  hand  with  a  grip  that  made  him 
wonder  at  its  force. 

He  pushed  through  the  evening  crowd  of  Broadway, 
pleasantly  reviewing  his  talk  with  the  girl.  At  Forty- 
second  Street  it  occurred  to  him  that  this  was  the  first 
time  he  had  walked  the  street  unconscious  of  its  throng. 
He  had  been  self -occupied,  like  most  of  its  members. 

But  the  girl,  he  reflected,  would  go  away.  The 
friend,  the  near  one,  to  take  and  give,  man  or  woman, 
was  still  to  be  found. 


CHAPTER  XIV 
THE  TRICK  OF  COLOR 

THE  men  of  the  Rookery  toiled,  in  the  season  of 
toil,  with  that  blithe  singleness  of  purpose 
they  brought  to  their  play.  Ewing  learned 
this  the  following  morning  when,  after  an  hour  in  his 
own  place,  correcting  some  of  those  hasty  first  arrange- 
ments, he  began  an  idling  tour  of  the  other  studios. 
These  occupied  the  two  upper  floors  of  the  building, 
those  beneath  flaunting  signs  of  trade  on  the  ground  - 
glass  doors  one  passed  in  the  long  climb  from  the  street. 

From  Baldwin's  studio — Baldwin  was  sketching  in 
from  the  model  a  kneeling  Filipino  prisoner  with  head 
thrown  back  and  hands  bound  behind  him — Ewing 
descended  to  Chalmers's  place  to  find  its  owner  finish- 
ing, with  many  swift  pen  strokes,  the  filmy  gown  of  a 
debutante  who  underwent  with  downcast  eyes  the 
appraisal  of  an  elderly  beau.  This  absorbed  and 
serious  Chalmers  was  so  unlike  the  frivolous  night 
bird  who  reviled  his  art  editor  that  Ewing  forbore  to 
distract  him. 

Griggs,  in  the  studio  back  of  Chalmers,  was  soberly 
work-bent  over  the  wash-drawing  of  a  sword  fight,  an 
illustration  for  what  he  confided  to  Ewing  was  the 
latest  "high  boots  and  hardware  novel." 

"One  lovely  thing,"  explained  the  artist,  "they  all 
take  the  same  pictures — the  plighted  troth  in  the  chateau 
garden;  the  lone  hero  spitting  eight  low-browed  mer- 

140 


The  Trick  of  Color 


canaries  of  the  scoundrelly  duke  at  the  end  of  the  blind 
passage;  'nother  fight  on  the  main  stairway  of  the 
palace,  girl  in  view  back  of  the  hero,  who's  still  acting 
the  village  cut-up  with  his  little  rapier;  and  the  last 
picture,  reward  of  hero  in  front  parlor  of  the  chateau, 
my  Lord  the  Cardinal  standing  by  to  bless  the  happy 
pair,  and  the  wicked  Duke  Bazazas  being  dragged  out 
by  loyal  serving  men  to  be  finished  off  in  the  woodshed. 
The  caption  for  that  one  always  is,  'At  Last,  My  Darling!' 
I  just  glance  along  the  proofs  until  I  light  on  those 
scenes.  It  saves  a  lot  of  reading,  and  I  think  of  getting 
a  set  of  rubber  stamps  to  do  the  pictures  with." 

"You  seem  to  be  all  black-and-white  men  here," 
remarked  Ewing.  "Aren't  any  of  you  painters?  I've 
thought  I'd  like  to  work  in  color — to  learn  the  trick  of 
it." 

Griggs  glanced  up  at  him,  then  smiled  largely. 

"The  trick  of  color,  eh?  Sure!  There's  a  boy 
upstairs  next  door  to  you — old  Pop  Sydenham.  I'll 
take  you  up  now,  but  don't  let  him  hear  you  call  it  'the 
trick  of  color.'  Pop  has  been  at  that  trick  for  over  a 
century  now — I  believe  he's  a  hundred  and  nineteen 
years  old  to-morrow.  He's  got  a  darned  refined  sense 
of  color,  too.  I  guess  he's  seen  every  color  in  the 
world,  except  some  of  those  he  puts  on  his  own  canvases. 
Some  of  those  I  don't  believe  he  ever  saw  anywhere 
else.  But  Pop's  worth  knowing  if  you're  keen  to  paint. 
He's  a  whole  Art  Students'  League  in  himself.  Come 
on,  he'll  be  proud  to  have  you  notice  him." 

Wiping  his  hands  neatly  on  his  jacket — plainly  a 
long-established  custom  with  him — Griggs  led  the  way 
to  a  room  across  the  hall  from  E wing's.  He  opened  the 
door  in  answer  to  a  call  and  pushed  Ewing  in  before 

141 


Ewing's  Lady 


him.  Sydenham  leaned  back  on  his  stool  to  peer  at 
them  around  the  corner  of  his  easel. 

He  was  an  old  man,  as  Griggs  had  said.  White  hair 
fell  in  sparse  locks  over  his  ears,  and  his  short,  roughly 
pointed  beard  was  scant  enough  to  reveal  sunken  cheeks. 
But  the  face  was  tanned  to  a  wholesome  brown,  and  the 
eyes  that  glanced  over  his  gold-rimmed  spectacles 
were  full  of  fresh  good-humor.  He  nodded  to  Griggs 
and  clambered  down  from  his  stool  to  greet  Ewing. 

"He's  a  line  man  now,"  announced  Griggs  after  the 
introduction,  "but  some  busybody  has  gone  and  told 
him  that  there's  such  a  thing  as  real  color.  Of  course 
I  don't  pretend  to  know  myself,  but  I  told  him  you  did. 
He's  your  neighbor  on  this  floor.  Run  in  often  and 
make  yourselves  at  home  with  each  other,"  he  con- 
cluded cordially.  "I  must  hurry  back  and  finish  a 
fight." 

"May  I  look?"  asked  Ewing,  his  eyes  running  about 
the  room  to  the  many  canvases. 

"My  summer's  work  is  there — Look?  yes;  but  I  can't 
promise  what  you'll  see.  You  bring  your  own  eyes. 
I  can't  make  eyes,  too.  If  I  only  could — "  He  spoke 
with  a  slow,  soft  gentleness,  his  blue  eyes  half  shut  and 
dreamily  distant.  As  Ewing  turned  to  study  a  land- 
scape leaning  against  the  wall  on  a  table  near  by,  the 
painter  climbed  to  his  stool  and  twined  his  thin  legs 
confusingly  among  its  supports.  Then  facing  his 
canvas  and  working  a  brush  into  the  color  on  his  palette 
he  continued: 

"  Line  is  a  fact.  Color  is  only  a  sensation.  Anyone 
can  prove  line,  but  to  know  color  you  must  have  imag- 
ination. If  you  lack  that  and  do  have  a  gift  for  humor- 
ous abuse  you  can  be  an  art  critic  and  make  quite  a  bit 

142 


The  Trick  of  Color 


of  money,  I'm  told."  He  had  begun  to  paint  as  he 
talked.  He  spoke  with  the  same  slow  gentleness, 
even  when  a  hint  of  seasoned  bitterness  betrayed  itself. 

One  close  look  at  the  sketches  about  him  had  made 
Ewing  rejoice  that  his  own  paintings  were  safe  with 
Ben  Crider.  He  studied  the  canvases  before  him  with 
pleasure  and  dismay:  wooded  hills,  grassy  meadows, 
a  park  slope  with  a  single  birch ;  mist  rising  over  a  marsh ; 
a  country  road  narrowing  into  a  blaze  of  sumach. 
They  showed  plainly  enough,  he  thought,  that  color 
must  be  conveyed  rather  by  implication  than  by  blunt 
directness,  and  there,  he  felt,  had  been  his  own  great 
blunder.  He  had  been  brutally  direct. 

Some  of  the  pictures  before  him  left  him  wanting  a 
sharper  definition  of  line,  a  more  explicit  modeling  of 
surface,  a  treatment  less  timid,  and  the  color  itself, 
though  it  never  failed  to  interest  him,  often  puzzled 
or  even  irritated.  He  sought  for  words  to  disclose 
what  he  felt,  his  admiration  for  some  of  the  sketches, 
his  doubt  or  his  rank  disbelief  as  to  others.  But  the 
old  man  suddenly  swept  the  half -formed  sentences  from 
his  mind. 

A  crash  of  falling  furniture  had  resounded  from  the 
room  of  Dallas,  forward  on  their  own  floor.  From  the 
studios  below  came  other  crashes,  the  noise  of  falling 
bodies,  and  a  ringing,  metallic  clangor.  Sydenham 
had  paused  at  the  first  crash,  then  skipped  nimbly 
from  his  stool,  shouting  gleefully,  "There  goes  Griggs's 
suit  of  armor!"  Then,  to  Ewing's  amazement,  he 
twitched  the  end  of  a  cord  that  led  to  a  high  mahogany 
sideboard,  causing  a  cigar  box,  a  copper  kettle,  and  a 
heavy  volume  of  prints  to  fall  with  resoundings  that 
must  have  carried  to  the  farthest  studio.  The  old  man 

143 


Ewing's  Lady 

faced  him  with  the  ecstatically  deafened  look  of  a  child 
amid  exploding  firecrackers.  Then,  as  he  discerned 
Ewing's  startled  look,  he  explained: 

"It's  only  a  way  the  boys  have  every  day  at  one 
o'clock.  That  Baldwin  boy  started  it  by  upsetting  a 
musket  and  a  brace  of  cavalry  sabers.  Then  Griggs 
followed  with  his  armor.  Then  they  all  got  to  joining 
in.  The  Chalmers  boy  pulls  over  his  easel,  and  I  under- 
stand there's  been  a  complaint  from  the  people  below; 
but  it  leaves  us  feeling  rather  friendly,  you  knowr,  and 
we're  sure  it's  time  to  eat."  He  looked  at  Ewing  as  if 
seeking  to  justify  his  complicity  in  so  childish  a  perfor- 
mance. And  Ewing,  reading  the  look,  helped  him  to 
reload  his  sideboard  for  the  next  day's  disturbance. 
The  copper  kettle,  book  and  cigar  box — the  latter  con- 
taining half  a  dozen  lumps  of  coal — were  replaced  on  a 
thin  board  to  which  the  string  was  attached. 

Sydenham  had  meantime  taken  food  from  a  curtained 
cabinet  and  was  munching  before  his  easel.  He  waved 
the  freedom  of  his  larder  to  Ewing.  "There's  bread 
and  half  a  chicken,  and  pickles.  There  used  to  be  ham, 
but  I  forget  if  it's  there  yet.  Anyway,  it  wasn't  the 
most  expensive  ham.  I  can't  lose  daylight  by  running 
out.  The  light  changes  while  I  eat.  I'm  no  Joshua. 
What  did  Griggs  say  of  you — crazy  boy,  that  Griggs. 
Doing  black  and  white,  eh?  Show  me." 

Ewing  had  helped  himself  to  the  bread  and  meat, 
and  the  two,  eating  casually,  crossed  the  hall  to  his  own 
room.  His  drawings  were  at  hand  and  Sydenham 
looked  at  them  as  he  munched,  pausing  critically  now 
and  then,  a  bit  of  bread  midway  to  his  mouth. 

"Not  bad,  not  bad!  If  you  can  do  that  well  you 
ought  to  do  better.  But  too  many  of  you  boys  quit 

144 


The  Trick  of  Color 


when  you've  learned  to  do  something  you  can  sell.  It's 
respectable,  of  course,  but  shoemakers  do  as  much, 
and  you've  no  right  to  call  yourselves  artists  for  it. 
I'm  afraid  there  isn't  anything  made  in  the  world 
that  some  one  won't  buy.  And  people  know  if  their 
boots  fit  them,  or  if  their  bread  is  good,  but  they  buy 
pictures  in  the  dark.  There  wouldn't  be  so  many  men 
calling  themselves  painters  if  the  public  wasn't  a  better 
judge  of  sawed  lumber  or  iron  castings  than  it  is  of 
pictures.  Where  did  you  study?" 

"My  father  taught  me  drawing.  He  warned  me  to 
learn  that  first." 

"Father,  eh?  Well — "  His  eyes  rose  from  the 
drawings,  ranged  along  the  top  of  the  couch,  to  the 
portrait  of  Ewing's  mother,  hung  between  the  two 
windows,  and  the  speech  died  on  his  lips.  He  stepped 
back,  bit  into  a  reserve  slice  of  bread  and  waved  an 
inquiring  chicken  bone  toward  the  picture. 

"  My  mother,"  explained  Ewing.  "  My  father  painted 
it." 

Sydenham's  jaw  fell,  and  looking  again  at  the  por- 
trait he  muttered  some  low,  swift  phrase  of  bewilder- 
ment. Ewing  waited  for  him  to  speak,  but  the  old 
man  only  stared. 

"It  has  good  color,  don't  you  think?"  he  ventured 
at  last,  but  even  the  mention  of  color  could  not  move 
Sydenham  to  speech.  He  absently  consumed  the 
remainder  of  his  food  and  flicked  crumbs  from  his 
frayed  jacket. 

"You  look  like  her,"  he  said  at  last,  with  so  much 
the  air  of  speaking  to  himself  that  Ewing  made  no 
answer.  He  moved  toward  the  door  with  bowed  head. 
At  the  threshold  he  looked  back  at  Ewing  a  brief  mo- 


Ewing's  Lady 


ment,  then  went  out,  closing  the  door  softly  behind 
him. 

Bwing  decided  that  his  neighbor  was  a  curious  old 
man.  Recalling  other  curious  people  he  had  met  in 
this  strange  new  world,  he  was  reminded  of  the  lady 
who  had  urged  him  to  call  on  her.  He  was  still  ready 
to  believe  that  anyone  might  wish  to  talk  to  him,  or  to 
hear  him  talk.  But  in  spite  of  this,  the  old  lady  had 
been  queer.  From  the  table  he  picked  up  the  card 
she  had  given  him,  studying  the  name  and  wondering 
what  they  might  talk  about. 

He  was  still  feeling  this  mild  wonder  when  he  rang 
the  lady's  bell  at  five  o'clock. 


146 


CHAPTER  XV 

FLESH   OF   HER  FLESH 

TWO  persons  had  waited  for  Ewing.     Mrs.  Lowndes 
was  one  of  them,  sitting  forward  in  her  chair 
and  braced  on  its  arms,  though  her  head  dropped 
now  and  then  in  forgetfulness.     The  other  was  a  big, 
shambling  old  man,  a  dark  man  gone  gray,  his  face 
needing  the  kindly,  yellowish -brown  eyes  to  save  it  from 
sternness.     His  thickets  of  eyebrows  were  joined  in  a 
half-humorous  scowl  of  perplexity. 

"I  had  to  send  for  you,  Fred.  You  and  Herbert 
Sydenham  are  the  only  two  left  who  were  close  to  me 
then,  and  Herbert  Sydenham — well — "  she  laughed 
a  laugh  of  exquisitely  humorous  pain — "  Herbert  would 
have  forgotten  me  any  time  these  twenty  years  for  a 
striking  color  scheme,  a  streak  of  unpaintable  moon- 
shine. It  was  you,  Fred,  or  no  one,  and  it  hurt  me  so! 
All  last  night  I  was  on  the  rocks  being  ground  to  bits. 
I  knew  you  would  say  the  wise  thing." 

The  big  man  had  risen  to  walk  the  floor,  his  thick 
shoulders  heaving  as  if  to  throw  off  invisible  burdens, 
his  head  shaking  doggedly. 

"Yes,  Kitty,  yes — "  His  voice  was 'big  but  low, 
the  voice  of  his  whole  being  bent  to  soothe.  He  came 
to  her  side  and  reached  down  to  take  one  of  the  frail, 
blue-veined  hands  between  his  own  two,  huge  and 
hairy.  They  closed  upon  hers  with  a  kind  of  awkward 
effectiveness. 

147 


Ewing's  Lady 

"Of  course  you  had  to  come  to  me,  but  I'm  afraid 
all  I  can  do  is  to  brace  you." 

"I  wanted  you  to  be  with  me.  I  couldn't  have 
borne  it  alone,  Fred — his  being  here— Kitty's  child." 

"And  you  say  he  doesn't  know?" 

"I'm  certain  of  it,  and  Eleanor  Laithe  doesn't  know; 
but  those  are  little  things  when  I  know." 

"We'll  see,  Kitty — we'll  see.  Perhaps  I  can  help. 
But  I  suspect  it's  one  of  those  matters  where  you  must 
be  your  own  guide.  You'll  act  as  you  feel;  not  as  I 
think — not  even  as  you  think." 

"Ellen  is  going  to  the  door,"  she  whispered,  almost 
fiercely,  bracing  herself  in  the  chair. 

As  the  maid  held  back  the  curtain  at  the  doorway, 
Ewing  advanced  uncertainly,  an  embarrassed  smile  on  his 
lips,  the  look  of  one  who  would  be  agreeable  if  he  knew 
how.  He  saw  Mrs.  Lowndes  stiffly  fixed  in  her  chair, 
her  white-crowned  head  thrown  back,  and  he  would 
have  taken  her  hand  but  she  diverted  him  from  this. 

"Mr.  Ewing,  my  old  friend,  Dr.  Birley." 

Her  voice  was  no  longer  halting  and  shallow,  as  it 
had  been  the  moment  before  when  her  barriers  were 
down.  Ewing  swiftly  confirmed  his  impression  of  the 
previous  day:  this  was  a  lady  of  immeasurable  pride, 
a  one-time  beauty  who  perhaps  treasured  the  authority 
her  charms  had  once  conferred  upon  her,  wielding  it 
with  little  old-fashioned  graces.  She  seemed  to  him 
at  the  moment  to  be  an  almost  excessively  mannered 
person,  interesting,  but  unapproachable. 

He  stopped  on  his  way  to  her  chair  and  shook  hands 
with  the  big  man,  who  had  come  forward.  This  person 
was  quite  as  formidable  as  the  curious  old  lady,  but  he 
was  eminently  kind  of  look. 

148 


Flesh  of  Her  Flesh 


"Sit  here,  Mr.  Ewing."     He  indicated  a  chair. 

"I  asked  you  to  come  and  see  me — "  The  old  lady 
had  begun  in  low,  even  tones,  but  paused,  and  Ewing 
was  again  struck  by  this  seeming  of  agitation  which 
had  made  him  remark  her  the  day  before. 

"Mrs.  Lowndes  was  interested  to  hear  of  your  life 
in  the  West,"  said  the  big  man  easily,  "and  she  was 
good  enough  to  ask  me  to  meet  you  also.  We  were 
both  interested  in  knowing  of  you  from  the  Bartells." 

"There  is  so  much  we  do  not  understand  here  in 
New  York,"  put  in  Mrs.  Lowndes,  rather  vaguely, 
Ewing  thought.  He  looked  from  one  to  the  other. 
The  lady  puzzled  him,  but  the  big  man  drew  him  from 
his  embarrassment,  helping  him  to  an  ease  which  he 
could  hardly  have  achieved  with  his  hostess  alone. 

Without  knowing  quite  how  he  began  he  was  presently 
talking.  Unconsciously  he  directed  his  speech  to  the 
man,  who  kept  kind  eyes  on  him  and  led  him  by  questions 
when  he  paused.  He  was  aware  that  the  woman  listened 
and  that  her  eyes  searched  his  face,  but  he  divined, 
without  meeting  them,  that  they  were  more  curious 
than  kind,  and  several  times,  as  she  moved  in  her  chair, 
he  seemed  to  feel  sharp  little  points  of  hostility  radiat- 
ing toward  him. 

But  the  big  man  drew  him  more  and  more  from  the 
consciousness  of  her  presence,  so  that  he  all  but  forgot 
her.  It  seemed  entirely  natural  to  him  that  he  should 
be  telling  this  friendly  inquirer  of  his  early  life,  the  first 
memories  of  his  father  and  mother,  and  of  the  queer, 
shifting  home  they  had  known.  As  he  told  of  the  death 
of  his  mother — both  listeners  had  seemed  strangely  alert 
for  that — he  was  startled  by  a  sound  from  the  lady 
— a  catching  of  breath  and  a  gasp  of  pain.  He  turned 

149 


E wing's  Lady 

quickly,  but  observed  only  a  stiffly  courteous  gesture 
bidding  him  continue. 

He  stopped  in  confusion,  feeling  that  a  strange  quiet 
had  come  upon  the  room.  The  questions  from  the  big 
man  had  ceased,  and  the  woman  drooped  in  her  chair 
until  he  could  no  longer  distinguish  her  outline  through 
the  deepening  dusk.  Nor  was  there  any  sound  when 
his  own  voice  ceased.  Neither  figure  stirred.  He  was 
oppressed  by  the  awkwardness  of  it. 

"I  should  have  pulled  up,"  he  said,  with  an  uneasy 
laugh.  "I  forgot  I  wasn't  on  a  lone  road." 

There  was  still  no  sign  from  the  woman,  shrunk  far 
into  her  chair,  but  the  doctor  rose  at  his  speech  with  a 
half-muttered,  "We're  obliged  to  you."  Ewing  rose 
at  the  same  time,  with  an  impulse  to  break  some  strain 
that  he  felt  himself  sharing.  The  doctor  reached  out 
in  the  dusk  and  turned  on  an  electric  light  that  hung 
above  the  table,  looking  quickly  at  Mrs.  Lowndes  as  he 
did  so,  for  there  had  come  from  her  a  murmur  of  protest 
at  the  light.  Ewing  also  looked  at  her  from  where 
he  stood  on  the  hearth  rug.  The  lighting  of  the  room 
had  intensified  some  electrical  current  that  pulsed  from 
each  to  each.  The  woman  returned  Ewing's  gaze  with 
the  absorption  of  one  moved  beyond  all  arts  of  conven- 
tion. Her  eyes  glistened,  ominous  of  tears,  and  her 
small,  lean  chin  trembled  as  her  lips  parted.  Ewing 
turned  from  her  distress,  appealing  by  look  to  the  big 
man,  who  watched  them  both,  but  his  gaze  was  at  once 
drawn  back  to  the  woman.  She  rose  from  her  chair 
with  weak  effort  and  faced  him  with  something  like 
wild  impulse  rather  than  intention,  a  look,  a  waiting 
poise,  that  shook  him  with  fear  of  the  unknown. 

Slowly  she  brought  her  hands  to  a  wringing  clasp 


Flesh  of  Her  Flesh 


at  her  breast.  Her  eyes  were  frankly  wet  now  as  she 
leaned  and  peered  at  him,  holding  him  immovable. 
Twice  her  lips  parted  with  dry  little  gasps,  her  hands 
working  as  if  to  ring  the  words  from  her  choked  throat. 

"My  boy!"  It  was  so  low  that  without  the  look  of 
her  lips  as  they  shaped  the  words  he  could  not  have 
been  sure. 

"  My  boy — oh,  my  boy ! "  This  time  they  were  sharper 
though  no  louder,  and  Ewing's  nerves  tingled  an  alarm 
that  ran  to  the  roots  of  his  hair.  She  came  a  half 
step  toward  him,  and  he  felt  that  he  was  drawing  her, 
divined  that  in  another  moment  she  would  be  throwing 
herself  upon  him  in  surrender  to  some  emotional  torrent 
that  raged  within  her.  He  was  powerless  under  this  sud- 
den, strange  assault.  Dumbly  he  watched  her,  closer 
now  by  another  step,  the  clasped  hands,  fighting  blindly 
toward  him,  with  little  retreats  to  her  breast,  her  dry 
lips  again  shaping  the  words,  "My  boy — my  boy!" 

And  then,  even  as  his  own  arms  were  half  extended 
with  an  instinctive  saving  movement — for  the  woman 
seemed  about  to  totter — the  stillness  was  broken  by 
quick  steps  along  the  hall,  the  rattle  of  curtain  rings  along 
a  rod,  and  the  voice  of  the  maid: 

"Mr.  Teevan,  ma'am!" 

There  had  been  an  instinctive  wrenching  asunder  of 
the  three  at  the  first  sound  of  steps.  Yet  traces  of  the 
stress  under  which  they  had  labored  were  still  evident 
to  Randall  Teevan  as  he  entered.  Mrs.  Lowndes  had 
turned  to  search  among  the  magazines  on  the  table — not 
before  the  little  man  had  swept  her  with  a  comprehend- 
ing eye  flash. 

Ewing,  pleasantly  delivered  from  a  situation  that  had 
grown  irksome,  a  situation  rising  from  what  he  considered 


Ewing's  Lady 

the  too-ready  sympathy  of  an  emotional  old  woman, 
allowed  his  relief  full  play  in  the  heartiness  of  his  re- 
sponse to  Teevan's  greeting.  The  doctor  had  squared 
his  shoulders  to  another  pacing  of  the  room. 

Teevan,  missing  no  item  of  the  drama  he  had  inter- 
rupted, chose  for  himself  the  r61e  of  blind  unconscious- 
ness. So  well  did  he  enact  this  that  Mrs.  Lowndes 
was  convinced,  and  the  belief  aided  her  to  recover  a 
proper  equanimity.  The  doctor  surveyed  the  new  actor 
with  a  skeptic  keenness  not  so  readily  to  be  overcome. 

One  glance  at  Ewing's  perturbed  but  mystified  face 
assured  Teevan  that  the  climax  of  exposure  had  not 
been  reached.  He  bustled  amiably  about  the  room, 
kissing  the  hand  of  Mrs.  Lowndes,  shaking  the  hand  of 
the  doctor,  straightening  a  picture  on  the  wall,  and,  at 
last,  lighting  a  cigarette  as  he  faced  the  room  from  his 
favorite  post  on  the  hearth  rug. 

"  I  ran  in  for  a  moment  to  see  how  my  lady  prospered," 
with  a  graceful  wave  of  the  expiring  match  toward  Mrs. 
Lowndes,  "  and  all  is  well.  I  find  her  holding  court  to 
youth  and  age,  to  wit  and  wisdom,  all  of  which  she  com- 
bines graciously  in  her  own  person.  She  is  looking 
weary,  perhaps,  but  rejoiced.  Gentlemen,  you  have 
served  her  well.  Doubtless  our  young  friend  here, 
Mr. — Ah,  yes,  Mr.  Ewing — has  talked  enchantingly. 
I've  had  an  art  evening  with  him  myself."  He  bestowed 
a  glance  of  benevolent  approval  on  Ewing,  who  smiled 
in  return. 

"  By  the  way,  my  lady,  I've  sent  you  a  brace  of  birds 
that  lived  their  little  span  of  woods  life  between  last 
spring  and  yesterday.  Ah,  but  they  came  to  a  fluent 
richness  of  body,  brown  and  plump  and  tender  as  first 
love,  and  tanged  with  autumn  spices — so  blessed  be  the 

152 


Flesh  of  Her  Flesh 


piece  that  brought  them  low.  Doctor,  you'd  dissect  them 
for  their  nerve  centers  or  the  intricacies  of  their  bone 
structure,  but  I  find  them  admirable  in  all  aspects.  They 
rejoice  my  scientific  soul  even  as  they  lure  my  carnal 
man.  Isn't  it  Duceps,  the  falconer,  friend  of  old  Izaak, 
who  speaks  of  birds  that  both  feed  and  refresh  man — 
'feed  him  with  their  choice  bodies,  and  refresh  him  with 
their  heavenly  voices'?  There  was  a  normal  person, 
now — not  one-sided." 

The  atmosphere  cleared  of  its  cloud  wrack  as  his 
speech  flowed,  marked  by  pointings  of  the  small,  crisp 
mustache  and  gracious  little  pauses  of  appeal  to  each  of 
the  listeners  in  turn. 

From  edible  songsters  he  progressed  to  the  cooking  of 
these,  and  thence  to  speech  on  the  art  of  cooking  at 
large.  There  were  pessimists,  it  seemed,  to  bemoan 
the  day  when  a  maitre  d'hotel  would  die  rather  than  out- 
live the  dishonor  of  his  master's  table,  as  when  Vatel 
stabbed  himself  because  the  fish  for  one  of  Condi's 
dinners  failed  to  arrive  on  time — proving,  as  Savarin 
observed,  that  the  fanaticism  of  honor  could  exist  in 
the  kitchen  as  well  as  in  the  camp.  But  in  the  opinion 
of  the  speaker  these  were  pinchbeck  heroics.  Vatel  would 
have  been  the  truer  Frenchman,  certainly  the  better 
chef,  if,  instead  of  wreaking  a  messy  violence  on  himself 
in  his  master's  kitchen,  he  had  contrived  an  entree  to 
replace  the  missing  fish.  And  we  should  remember,  too, 
that  the  French,  good  cooks  as  they  are,  have  but  elab- 
orated an  art  for  the  germinal  principals  of  which  they 
are  indebted  to  Italian  genius.  Italy  first  saw  the  re- 
vival of  cookery  as  she  first  saw  the  revival  of  learn- 
ing. The  land  of  Savarin  lay  in  darkness  until  light 
was  brought  by  those  incomparable  artists  in  the  train 

11  153 


Ewing's  Lady 

of  Catharine  de  Medicis.  One  might  recall  how  Mon- 
taigne was  captivated  in  the  land  of  Horace  by  the 
weighty  manner  of  the  chef  of  Cardinal  Caraffa  in  dis- 
coursing upon  the  occultisms  of  his  art.  The  Italians 
even  then  held  the  thing  hardly  second  to  theology. 

The  little  man  here  permitted  a  pause  in  which  he 
discarded  his  cigarette  and  readjusted  the  carnation 
in  his  lapel,  with  a  sniff  at  its  spiciness.  Then  he  turned 
graciously  to  Bwing. 

"But  I  must  be  off — time  races  so  in  this  little  nook! 
If  you're  stepping  on,  Mr. — Ah,  yes — Ewing,  to  be 
sure — if  you're  leaving,  I  shall  be  glad  to  join  you  as 
far  as  the  avenue.  My  dutiful  love,  lady,  and  to  you, 
doctor,  that  virtue  which  superstition  ascribes  to  your 
pellets.  The  word  'health '  could  never  have  been  coined 
by  the  healthy,  could  it?  I  dislike  to  use  the  word 
baldly." 

Ewing  rose,  glad  of  the  exit  thus  provided.  It  was 
kind  of  people  to  concern  themselves  about  his  affairs, 
but  he  wished  they  could  be  less  peculiar.  He  bowed 
to  Mrs.  Lowndes  and  shook  hands  with  the  doctor.  He, 
at  least,  was  understandable. 

When  they  had  gone  the  old  lady  faced  her  friend 
with  a  calmness  that  surprised  him. 

"Fred,  what  sorry,  what  terrible  things  can  make  us 
young  again!  I  feel  now  as  I  felt  that  other  night — 
just  at  this  hour  so  many  years  ago — when  I  knew  she'd 
gone — knew  she'd  gone." 

"  He's  Kitty's  boy."  The  big  man  fronted  her  as  if 
for  a  feat  of  persuasion. 

"Don't,  Fred!  I've  just  weathered  that  point.  I 
was  weak,  but  Randall — Randall  saved  me.  He's 
dreadful,  Fred,  unnatural,  impossible — oh,  terribly 


Flesh  of  Her  Flesh 


impossible!"  She  faced  him  dauntlessly,  her  cheeks 
glowing  with  faint  spots  of  color. 

"  I  liked  him,  Kitty.     He  seems " 

"You're  a  physician,  accustomed  to  monstrosities. 
He's  something  we  don't  speak  of,  my  friend.  And  see — 
you  must  see — what  he  would  suffer  if  he  knew." 


CHAPTER  XVI 

TEEVAN   AS  SPECIAL   PROVIDENCE 

EWING  was  delighted  by  an  invitation  from  the 
little  man  to  dine.  They  had  reached  the  avenue 
after  walking  in  silence  through  a  side  street. 
Such  moments  were  rare  with  Teevan.  Not  often  did 
he  fail  of  speech,  even  in  his  periods  of  calculation.  But 
this  was  a  moment  requiring  nice  adjustments.  The  sug- 
gestion about  dinner  came  as  they  paused  at  the  corner. 

"If  you'd  like  to  have  me  I'd  be  mighty  glad,"  re- 
sponded Ewing. 

They  turned  toward  Ninth  Street,  and  Ewing  told  of 
his  hour  at  Mrs.  Lowndes',  scarce  conscious  of  Teevan' s 
questioning,  for  the  little  man  probed  with  an  air  of 
discreet  condolence  that  would  have  won  a  far  more 
reticent  talker.  Ewing  was  gratified  by  this  attention 
from  a  man  who  knew  the  world  of  cities,  and  whose 
mind  must  usually  be  occupied  with  affairs  of  import- 
ance. He  felt  himself  drawn  to  Teevan  by  bonds  of 
sympathy  that  tightened  momentarily. 

"My  dear  mother-in-law  is  a  sentimental  thing," 
the  little  man  confessed  with  a  delicate  intimation  of 
apology.  "She  makes  any  sad  tale  her  own.  The 
theater  affects  her,  the  woes  of  stage  creatures,  quite 
as  you  tell  me  your  own  very  human  little  story  did. 
My  arrival  must  have  saved  you  from  one  of  her  rather 
absurd  manifestations.  She's  a  dear  old  soul,  with 
quantities  of  temperament,  but  she  recovers  with  amaz- 

156 


Teevan  as  Special  Providence 

ing  facility,  I'm  bound  to  say.  If  you  met  her  to- 
morrow she'd  likely  freeze  you  with  a  nod." 

Ewing  was  not  sorry  to  hear  this,  though  he  thought 
it  hardly  polite  to  say  so. 

When  they  reached  the  house  in  Ninth  Street  Teevan 
ushered  in  his  guest  with  a  charming  hospitality. 

"Come  to  the  library.  The  man  will  bring  you  an 
aperitif  while  I  escape  from  this  accursed  frock  coat. 
Not  a  word  about  your  own  dress!  I  took  you  as  you 
were — but  a  jacket  for  me,  if  you'll  pardon  it."  A 
servant  entered  in  answer  to  his  ring. 

"Sherry  and  bitters,  Farrish,  and  Mr.  Ewing  will 
dine  with  us.  Is  my  son  in?" 

"Mr.  Alden  is  dining  out,  sir." 

"  All  the  better,  my  boy.  We  shall  be  the  chummier  for 
Alden's  absence.  Make  the  house  yours  while  I  change. 
There  are  the  evening  papers;  or  perhaps  you'll  be  inter- 
ested by  those  cabinet  bits — jades  and  scarabs  and  junk 
of  that  sort;  a  few  fairish  pieces  of  Greek  glass — that 
Tanagra  isn't  bad,  nor  those  Limoges  enamels.  The 
netsukes  and  sword  guards  are  rather  good  Japanese 
bits,  and  there  are  one  or  two  exquisite  etchings  on 
ivory — un  instant,  n'est-ce  pas?" 

Ewing  lay  back  in  his  chair  and  sipped  the  sherry  when 
it  came.  His  enjoyment  of  the  room's  ensemble  was 
too  nearly  satisfying  to  require  examination  of  it  by 
detail.  It  was  a  room  of  discreet  and  mellowed  luxury, 
with  an  air  of  jaunty  ripeness  that  distinguished  its 
composer.  The  chairs  solicited,  the  walls  soothed,  the 
broken  light  illumined  perfectly  without  dazzling.  He 
was  thrilling  agreeably  to  his  host's  evident  interest  in 
him  when  the  latter  returned,  beaming  with  a  smile 
of  rare  good-fellowship. 

157 


Ewing's  Lady 

They  were  presently  at  table  in  a  dining  room  whose 
plain  old  mahogany  and  thin  silver  produced,  like  the 
library,  an  impression  of  finished  luxury  without  flaunt. 
The  dinner  itself  possessed  an  atmosphere  of  sophisti- 
cation, a  temperament,  even.  It  sated  the  exigent 
appetite  of  Ewing — his  luncheon  with  Sydenham  had 
been  a  mere  adventure  in  meagerness — and  sated  with- 
out cloying,  but  it  was  more  than  food  to  him.  As  he 
ate,  and  drank  of  a  burgundy  whose  merit  he  was  ill 
qualified  to  appraise,  he  was  conscious  of  a  real  fascina- 
tion growing  within  him  for  the  man  who  favored  him 
with  so  distinguished  a  notice;  who  talked,  seemingly, 
with  the  same  nice  care  to  please  him  that  he  would 
have  exercised  for  a  tableful  of  more  difficult  guests. 

Nor  did  Teevan  lack  the  parts  of  a  listener.  Ewing 
found  himself  talking  much  and  enjoyably.  With  so  tact- 
ful a  listener,  so  good  a  friend,  it  was  no  longer  necessary 
to  remember  that  he  was  new  in  this  land  and  unknowing 
of  its  smaller  ways.  It  occurred  to  him,  indeed,  as  he  re- 
viewed this  memorable  evening,  that  he  had  talked  more 
than  his  host.  But  he  was  spared  the  youthful  blush 
at  this  by  remembering  that  he  had  been  questioned 
persistently — "  toled,"  as  Ben  would  have  said,  with  baits 
of  inquiry.  Incredible  as  it  seemed,  Teevan  wished  him 
to  talk  and  had  neatly  made  him  do  so.  He  felt  that 
the  little  man  must  know  him  through  and  through. 
He  had  been,  of  course,  a  book  in  large  print  and  short 
words,  but  he  was  flattered  to  believe  that  Teevan  had 
found  him  worth  opening. 

And  now  he  was  certain  he  had  discovered  the  longed- 
for  friend ;  one  soul  had  come  from  the  oblivious  throng 
to  touch  his  own,  to  call  him  out  and  speak  him  fair. 
He  was  companioned  by  one  as  likable  as  he  was  learned, 

158 


Teevan  as  Special  Providence 

by  one  who  meant,  it  was  intimated,  to  seek  every  oppor- 
tunity to  befriend  him. 

And  the  need  of  such  a  friend  became  more  and  more 
apparent  to  Bwing  as  they  sat  in  the  library  after  dinner 
over  coffee  and  liqueurs.  It  was  brought  upon  him 
that  he  had  never  known  his  own  rashness  in  braving 
so  difficult  a  world  with  so  modest  an  equipment.  The 
tragedy  of  failure  was  a  commonplace  in  the  little  man's 
experience.  So  many  young  dreamers  like  his  guest 
were  rejected  after  bitter  trials.  It  was  an  inconsequen- 
tial world,  whose  denizens  chased  butterflies  and  too 
often  permitted  sober  worth  to  perish  by  the  wayside. 

At  times  during  the  evening  Ewing  had  feared  a 
return  of  that  distressing  malady  to  which  his  host  was 
subject,  but  this  he  was  happily  spared. 

When  he  took  a  reluctant  leave  it  was  with  two  emo- 
tions :  a  fervent  liking  for  the  wise  man  who  had  so  gen- 
erously befriended  him,  and  doubt  of  himself,  the  first 
he  had  known.  It  came  like  an  icy  blast  out  of  summer 
warmth  and  shine. 

Teevan  listened  for  the  door  to  close  on  his  guest. 
When  he  heard  this  he  sank  into  his  chair  and  chuckled 
gaspingly.  Presently  he  drank  a  glass  of  brandy,  smiled 
in  remembering  pleasure,  lighted  a  cigarette,  and  took 
his  post  on  the  hearth  rug,  his  eyes  dancing  elfishly,  his 
lips  moving. 

His  son  found  him  so  an  hour  later,  for  the  little  man 
was  tireless  even  when,  lacking  an  audience,  he  merely 
dramatized  his  own  reflections.  Seeing  him  to  be 
familiarly  engaged,  Alden  Teevan  would  have  withdrawn 
with  a  careless,  half -contemptuous  nod,  but  his  father 
detained  him  with  a  gesture,  and  a  sudden  setting  of 
his  face  into  purposeful  hardness. 


Ewing's  Lady 

"  Sit  down."  He  looked  into  the  hall,  then  closed  the 
door  and  faced  his  son.  The  latter  regarded  him  with 
coolly  impertinent  interest. 

"You'd  make  a  ripping  conspirator  in  a  melodrama, 
Randy.  What  you  going  to  do  now — steal  the  will?" 

Teevan  laughed  grimly.  He  crossed  back  to  the 
hearth  rug  and  took  a  fresh  cigarette,  which  he  lighted 
with  studious  deliberation.  His  words  followed  swiftly 
upon  the  first  exhalation  of  smoke,  and  his  eyes  fastened 
venomously  on  his  son's. 

"I'll  give  you  a  morsel  to  jest  with — conspirator, 
indeed ! — yes,  and  a  will.  See  if  that  facile  wit  of  yours 
is  up  to  it,  my  bonny  stripling."  He  played  with  his 
moment,  drawing  on  the  cigarette  with  leisurely  relish, 
and  gazing  into  the  smoke  with  eyes  of  an  absorbed 
visionary. 

"Well?"     The  young  man  yawned  ostentatiously. 

"You  missed  dining  with  your  brother  this  evening. 
He  was  good  enough  to  break  bread  at  my  table." 

The  young  man  took  a  cigarette  from  the.  lacquered 
bowl  at  his  side  and  lighted  it  with  the  same  deliberation 
his  father  had  shown. 

"Really?     I  didn't  know  you  had  another  son." 

"Thank  God  I  haven't — but  your  mother  had,  and 
that  precious  sniveling  grandmother  of  yours  has 
another  grandson.  You  might  recall  that  when  you 
chatter  of  melodrama — and  wills.  I  believe  her  estate 
is  not  one  you'd  care  to  divide." 

"What  rot  are  you  gibbering  with  those  monkey  airs 
of  yours?" 

"  Delicate  as  ever  in  your  raillery !  Perhaps  you  think 
I'm  drunk.  Perhaps  I  am.  But  I  dropped  in  on  your 
grandmother  this  afternoon  in  time  to  prevent  her 

160 


Teevan  as  Special  Providence 

clasping  that  nameless  whelp  to  her  breast.  A  lovely 
bit  I  spoiled,  my  merry-andrew ! — tears  and  fondlings 
to-night,  a  codicil  to-morrow.  I'm  none  too  sure  there'd 
have  been  a  codicil,  though.  Likelier  a  new  will — 'give, 
devise,  and  bequeath  the  sum  of  one  dollar  to  my  grand- 
son Alden  Teevan,  who  has  already  wheedled  me  out  of 
more  than  was  good  for  him,  and  the  residue  of  my 
estate,  both  real  and  personal,  to  my  beloved  grandson, 
Gilbert  Denham  Ewing '" 

"Ewing!  That  chap  Nell  Laithe  brought  back  with 
her — that  rustic  lout " 

"Have  I  won  your  attention,  lad?  Another  item 
I  chance  to  recall — permit  me,  since  you've  mentioned 
the  lady's  name — have  you  caught  the  look  of  her  eye 
as  it  rests  upon  the  creature — how  it  follows  him,  runs 
to  him,  hangs  upon  him  with  sweet  tenacity?  Have 
you  felt  the  glow  in  her  voice  as  she  speaks  to  him? 
A  woman  of  the  world,  young,  tender,  romantic,  stormed 
by  this  Galahad  of  the  hills,  who  first  wins  her  solicitude 
by  his  helplessness,  and  then,  before  the  lady  quite 
knows  it,  coerces  her  whole  being  by  sheer  masculine 
dominance.  Ah,  you  haven't  read  that — only  enough 
of  it  to  puzzle  you,  perhaps  enrage  you.  You  haven't 
your  father's  eyes.  I  read  it  all  in  three  glances:  one 
at  him  and  two  at  her.  Decidedly,  you've  not  your 
father's  eyes." 

"Nor  his  love  of  many  words.  So  that's  the  son  of 
my  mother,  of  the  woman  who  failed  to  adore  you  after 
a  brief  but  heroic  effort?" 

"  Likewise,  I  dare  say,  the  lover  of  a  woman  who  will 
henceforth  fail  to  appraise  you  at  anything  like  your 
extraordinary  worth.  Such  blind  things  they  are,  eh, 
my  boy?  She  regards  the  two  of  you  superficially,  bien 

161 


Ewing's  Lady 


entendu,  and  hence  to  your  prejudice.  There's  a  likeness 
between  you,  the  same  cast  of  face,  even  a  likeness 
of  voice,  and  your  noses  are  identical  —  the  nose  of  that 
woman  —  but  the  differences  are  all  in  his  favor.  You 
have  grace  of  a  drawing-room  sort,  a  certain  boudoir 
polish  of  manner,  but  his  face  is  fresher,  kinder,  quicker 
of  sympathy,  more  compelling,  and  there's  that  out- 
of-doors  look  in  his  eye,  the  look  of  readiness  and 
power.  You  know  what  that  sort  of  strength  means  with 
the  pretty  animals." 

"You  speak  bitterly  —  but  then,  you've  competed 
with  that  sort." 

"My  unhappy  infant!  You'd  at  least  have  found  a 
barren  sort  of  dignity  in  actual  competition.  As  it 


"You  got  her  by  a  trick,  I've  heard,  from  the  man 
who  took  her  away  from  you  when  she'd  found  you  out." 

"Tell  that  to  your  grandmother  —  it  may  help  you 
out  of  some  money." 

"Stop  it,  governor!  I'll  quit  if  you  will.  Come!" 
He  spoke  with  a  drop  of  the  voice,  and  lifted  a  hand 
in  appeal. 

"When  you  like  —  I've  wasted  no  words." 

"It's  true,  all  you've  said?     Grandmother  knows?" 

"Thirty  seconds  later  and  I'd  have  had  to  bless  the 
pair." 

"And  now?" 

"It's  safe  for  the  present.  She  forgot.  She'll 
remember  to-morrow.  I'd  trust  him  back  there  then. 
She'd  see  only  an  obscene  excrescence." 

"It's  a  pleasant  situation!" 

"  It's  hellish  !  Can  you  imagine  my  feelings?  You've 
touched  on  them  with  your  graceful,  filial  banter." 

162 


Teevan  as  Special  Providence 

"What  will  you  do?" 

'"What  will  you  do?"  He  mimicked  the  other 
with  a  snarl.  "Well,  I  begin  by  having  him  to  dine. 
I  study  him,  I  win  him.  I  have  him  now.  He  will 
dine  with  me  other  times.  I'm  not  so  sure  he  won't 
come  to  reverence  me.  Oh,  it's  an  ideal  situation! 
Damn  it!  How  they  fall!  We  couldn't  contrive  them 
half  so  cunningly.  The  fool  hath  said  in  his  heart 
'There  is  no  God' — a  fool,  indeed!  There  is  a  God, 
and  He  has  a  devil  in  Him,  or  He  couldn't  have  given 
me  this  to  play  out.  I  have  him,  I  tell  you,  her  son 
and  his  son,  think  of  it — her  lover's  son  that  they  both 
loved — served  up  to  me!" 

"What  can  you  do  with  him?" 

"Do  with  him?"  The  elder  man  eyed  his  son  for  a 
long  minute,  then  dropped  into  a  chair,  and  for  an 
interval  the  young  man  pursued  his  rather  uncomfortable 
reflections  in  silence.  At  last  he  broke  this  with  another 
query.  As  there  was  no  response,  and  his  father's 
face  was  turned  away,  he  rose  and  sauntered  in  front 
of  him.  The  eyes  met  his  musingly,  and  he  saw  that 
the  mouth  was  fixed  in  a  rather  hideous  smile. 


163 


CHAPTER  XVII 

AN   ELUSIVE   VENUS 

THE  days  that  followed  were  marked  for  Ewing 
with  a  puzzling  discouragement;  puzzling,  be- 
cause there  had  been  no  failure.  A  failure 
would  have  left  him  reliant,  however  battered,  but 
nothing  good  had  been  disproved.  He  was  fighting 
some  black  doubt  of  himself,  insidiously  nursed,  he 
knew  not  how. 

His  friend,  Randall  Teevan,  almost  an  intimate  since 
the  night  they  dined  together,  daily  predicted  great 
works  of  him.  Where  the  careless  picture  makers  of 
the  Rookery  were  content  with  assurances  that  he 
could  turn  out  marketable  "stuff,"  Teevan  showed 
him  far  and  lofty  eminences  that  he  might  scale,  had  he 
a  spirit  for  the  feat. 

Undoubtedly  there  were  obstacles  that  would  daunt 
a  less  spirited  novice,  or  one  with  less  than  the  supreme 
powers  of  his  young  friend,  but  he,  the  intrepid,  the 
enduring  one,  could  surmount  them.  The  danger  in 
this  time  of  'prenticeship,  Teevan  suggested,  was  slug- 
gish content  with  a  cheap  facility.  The  tyro  learns 
to  do  a  thing  that  sells,  and  remains  commercially 
solvent  but,  spiritually,  an  example  of  arrested  develop- 
ment— artistically  dead. 

He  left  Ewing  at  these  times  with  a  sense  of  his  present 
futility,  but  also  with  a  genial  pity  for  the  men  who 
were  doing  things  to  sell — and  selling  them;  all  uncon- 

164 


An  Elusive  Venus 


scious  of  the  remote,  the  vacant  summits,  of  true  art. 
A  little  while  before  he  would  have  rejoiced  that  his 
work  could  appear  beside  the  work  of  these  men.  That 
would  have  been  a  triumph  glorious  enough.  But 
he  could  no  longer  desire  so  mean  a  success.  He  must 
strive  for  the  higher  things,  if  for  no  other  reason, 
because  this  fastidious  critic  expected  him  to  accomplish 
them.  He  could  not  affront  that  captious  taste  with 
things  done  for  a  dollar.  Teevan,  it  seemed,  had 
found  life  wearing  on  his  dearest  illusions.  Contact 
with  the  world  had  left  him  little  to  believe  in.  Yet  he 
confessed  to  believe  in  Ewing;  confessed  it  with  a  shamed, 
humorous  naivetee,  and  with  pleasant  half  doubts,  as 
a  man  of  tried  unbelief  laying  a  bed  to  fall  back  on  at 
his  next  undeceiving. 

Ewing  was  fired  to  high  resolve  by  this  witty,  this 
tender  betrayal  of  confidence  in  his  powers.  He  could 
not  bear  to  think  that  his  friend  should  one  day  find 
him,  too,  a  bit  of  specious  insincerity.  He  consecrated 
himself  to  guard  this  last  illusion.  It  was  a  pleasure, 
a  duty,  and  an  ambition  whose  rewards  would  magnify 
them  both. 

The  hill  boy  no  longer  yearned  solitary  in  the  crowd 
for  a  day  with  Ben  Crider,  or  perhaps  an  evening  with 
him  of  little  easy  silences.  Teevan  filled  his  needs.  In 
some  sort  the  little  man  became  his  idol;  a  constant 
presence  before  which  every  act  of  his  days  must  be 
judged.  Teevan  was  a  smiling  but  inexorable  arbiter 
of  his  destiny:  a  judge  humane  but  incorruptible,  a 
man  experienced  in  the  obliquities  of  human  nature, 
but  never  tolerant  of  these. 

Teevan  showed  him  pictures,  the  work  of  masters, 
piloting  him  through  galleries  with  instructive  comment. 

165 


Ewing's  Lady 

Ewing  instinctively  felt  the  accuracy  of  his  taste,  and 
divined  the  soundness  of  his  technical  knowledge. 
Often  he  overlooked  a  blemish  of  bad  drawing  till 
Teevan  pointed  it  out.  Often  Teevan  defined  to  his 
eye  some  masterly  bit  of  lining  in  a  picture  otherwise 
hopeless.  And  of  color,  that  splendid  mystery,  thing 
of  trick  and  passion,  the  little  man  discoursed  with 
rare  sanity. 

After  these  provings  of  his  expertness,  Ewing  was 
humble  when  Teevan  chose  to  point  out  the  more  strik- 
ing deficiencies  of  his  own  work.  If  Teevan  made 
him  feel  that  he  must  unlearn  the  vicious  little  he  knew, 
he  performed  trie  duty  with  a  tact  that  left  the  youth 
as'  large  with  gratitude  as  with  discouragement.  It 
was  by  Tee  van's  counsel  that  he  went  to  the  school. 
The  men  of  the  Rookery  tried  to  dissuade  him  from  that. 

"They  can't  give  you  anything  you  haven't  got," 
warned  Baldwin.  "And  if  you  don't  act  stubborn 
they  may  spoil  what  you  have.  You've  learned  your 
A  B  C's,  and  they'll  only  tell  you  at  the  school  to  learn 
them  another  way.  They'll  make  you  feel  like  a  clumsy 
ass.  Stay  away." 

Well-meant  advice,  but  superficial,  as  Teevan  ob- 
served when  he  heard  of  it. 

"Your  friend  confirms  what  I  suspected,"  he  went  on, 
with  a  pleasant  glint  in  his  eyes.  "  Those  chaps  would 
have  you  become  a  decent  hack  on  the  pitiful  facility 
you've  already  acquired.  Pitiful,  mark  me,  as  compared 
with  your  capacity.  But  I've  learned  to  expect  little 
in  this  world  of  weak  purpose.  I  dare  say  you  won't 
endure  it  long  at  the  school.  I  grant  you  a  fortnight 
there;  then  you'll  tell  me  you  give  up." 

He  began  his  lessons  at  the  League  next  day,  fired 
166 


An  Elusive  Venus 


with  intent  to  please  his  friend.  He  would  fail,  yes — 
fail  seventy  times  seven,  but  he  would  stand  up. 

He  went,  however,  a  little  weighed  down  by  the 
memory  of  his  various  advisers.  From  the  entrance 
he  was  directed  above  by  an  official-looking  person  who 
yawned.  Then  he  found  himself  in  one  of  many 
cramped,  stall-like  compartments,  facing  a  plaster  woman 
who  crouched  on  one  knee.  His  position  was  between 
two  youths  who  were  annoyed  by  his  nearness.  When 
he  edged  from  the  glowering  of  one  the  other  nudged 
his  drawing  board  with  an  indignant  elbow.  There 
was  no  retreat,  for  the  students  were  packed  closely 
about  him.  The  one  behind  him  made  disparaging 
remarks  about  the  dimensions  of  his  back,  which 
seemed  unkind,  considering  that  he  did  not  hesitate  to 
use  the  back  from  time  to  time  as  an  easel. 

The  air  was  hot  and  thick  with  charcoal  dust.  The 
crowded  disorder  confused  him.  He  tried  to  think 
only  of  the  cast.  He  began  at  the  head,  as  was  his 
custom,  and  felt  a  moment's  exhilaration  in  studying 
the  delicate  shadows  beneath  the  filleted  curls. 

He  was  aroused  by  sounds  of  derision  from  behind, 
and  ominous  prophecies  of  what  "Old  Velvet"  would 
do  to  him  when  he  caught  sight  of  that  pompadour. 
He  observed  then  that  the  other  men  were  not  working 
at  the  head  first,  but  mapping  out  the  entire  figure  at 
once  with  long,  raking,  angular  lines  that  blocked  the 
shadows  in  square  masses.  He  half  rose  and  looked 
about.  They  were  all  working  alike,  with  their  drawing 
boards  far  out,  and  with  blunt  charcoal.  He  had  spent 
half  an  hour  sharpening  his,  and  had  hugged  his  drawing 
board. 

He  sat  down  again,  impelled  by  protests  from  behind 

167 


Ewing's  Lady 


and  drew  the  entire  figure,  but  he  could  not  bring  him- 
self to  do  it  in  those  rude  angles.  He  drew  it  with  a 
single  line — down  the  curving  flank,  about  the  gracious 
knees,  skirting  the  feet,  and  up  once  more  to  round 
the  farther  shoulder  that  drooped  above  the  nestling 
breast.  Although  he  did  not  know  it,  this  was  a  feat; 
the  swing  of  the  body  was  almost  perfect,  yet  he  had 
not  skirmished  a  moment. 

The  youth  behind  him  was  now  peering  through 
spectacles  above  his  shoulder. 

"You're  a  queer  duck!"  he  said;  "but  he'll  make 
you  do  it  his  way.  What  do  you  mean  by  drawing 
like  that?" 

"Why?"  asked  Ewing,  confused.     "Let's  see  yours." 

The  other  exhibited.  There  was  no  outline,  there 
were  no  gracious  curves,  only  a  suggestion  of  angular 
shadows,  scratched  across  with  brutal  straightness. 
Yet,  when  Ewing  squinted  his  eyes  a  bit  the  thing  stood 
out. 

"Wait  till  I  get  my  shadows  in,"  he  said. 

"Cart  before  the  horse!"  rejoined  the  critic.  "I 
see  your  finish  with  the  old  man." 

Ewing  started  to  lay  in  his  shadows  as  the  other  had 
done,  but  it  seemed  as  if  that  delicate  body  appealed 
for  gentler  treatment.  He  rubbed  out  the  vandal 
lines  and  began  swinging  around  the  figure  in  the  curving 
strokes  habitual  with  him,  strokes  that  nursed  each 
lovely  rondure  like  caresses.  Then,  until  the  closing 
hour,  he  polished,  picking  out  the  precious  little  reflected 
lights  that  saved  her  treasures  from  shadow. 

"Red  ruin  for  you,  my  boy!"  exclaimed  the  spectacled 
one  behind  him.  "Ravage  and  slaughter!  Old  Velvet 
will  scalp  you." 

168 


An  Elusive  Venus 


Ewing  stood  up,  released  by  his  neighbors,  who  now 
rose  in  a  clatter  of  toppled  stools. 

"What's  the  matter  with  it?"  he  asked. 

"Finicky!  You've  fussed  it  to  death.  Velvet  will 
slay  you  for  those  reflected  lights  alone — and  your  nice 
curly  lines — oh,  Lord!" 

"But  they're  there,  those  lights,"  protested  Ewing. 
"  And  it's  the  way  I've  always  drawn.  I  suppose  there 
are  different  methods." 

"  There's  only  one  way  with  Velvet,  and  that's  Velvet's 
way."  Then  with  a  damnatory  waving-away  of  the 
offensive  drawing  he  sauntered  off  to  put  his  stuff  in 
his  locker. 

Ewing  dined  alone  that  night.  He  was  in  no  mood 
for  Teevan. 

Back  in  his  place  next  day,  still  incredulous  of  defeat 
so  swift,  he  waited  for  the  master.  He  watched  him 
going  the  rounds  of  the  other  students,  the  light  playing 
on  the  purple  velvet  of  the  garment  that  gave  him  his 
title.  His  beard  was  a  rich  growth,  his  mustaches 
curled  upward  at  the  ends,  his  large,  heavy  eyelids 
drooped  in  a  perpetual  ennui.  His  usual  criticism  was 
a  weary  "  Rub  it  out!" 

When  at  last  he  stood  beside  Ewing's  work  he  gave 
an  effect  of  collapsing,  as  if  his  whole  being  cried  out: 
"This  is  too  much!"  He  took  the  drawing  from  the 
board  and  stuck  it  to  the  wall  with  two  thumb  tacks. 
Then,  picking  up  a  bit  of  charcoal,  he  wrote  across  it, 
"A  perfect  example  of  how  not  to  do  it." 

He  did  not  return  to  Ewing,  but,  after  examining  a 
few  other  drawings,  he  turned  to  leave  the  room.     As 
he  passed,  Ewing  reached  across  two  neighbors — who 
protested — and  caught  the  velvet  jacket. 
12  169 


Ewing's  Lady 


"Perhaps  you  can  give  me  an  idea,"  he  said.  The 
other  looked  at  him  as  if  he  had  not  seen  him  before. 

"Use  intelligence!  Good  God — use  intelligence!" 
he  almost  wailed,  and  made  his  escape. 

Ewing  mechanically  placed  a  fresh  sheet  before  him 
and  began  again,  but  he  rubbed  out  as  fast  as  he  drew. 
The  next  morning  he  found  the  paper  foul  from  many 
erasures,  and  started  afresh.  He  could  see  now  that 
his  first  drawing,  posted  in  irredeemable  ignominy, 
was  not  all  that  it  should  be.  It  lacked  the  freedom 
of  work  he  had  done  in  his  solitude.  He  tried  to  conjure 
back  that  old  free  feeling,  but  the  days  passed  and  it 
drew  farther  away.  Some  of  the  students  changed 
places  and  began  on  other  casts.  The  better  men  went 
every  other  week  into  the  life  class.  But  Ewing  stayed 
desperately  by  his  crouching  woman.  He  studied  her 
until  he  loved  and  loathed  her.  The  master  came  and 
went.  Sometimes  he  ignored  Ewing.  When  he  did 
notice  him  it  was  always  with  a  fresh  blow  on  the  sunk 
heart  of  the  boy.  Once  he  sat  in  his  place  and  ran 
some  of  his  own  brusque,  effective  lines  along  the  figure, 
the  lines  that  every  other  youth  in  the  room  punctiliously 
imitated.  They  mingled  with  Ewing's  strokes  as  a 
driving  rain  mingles  with  a  bed  of  flowers. 

"If  you'd  only  give  up  your  damned  little  way," 
he  complained. 

"I  wish  you'd  explain  a  bit,"  pleaded  the  boy. 

"Old  Velvet"  turned  to  the  spectacled  young  man. 
"Give  him  your  study.  There,  do  it  like  that." 

Then  came  the  beginning  of  the  end.  He  lost  him- 
self in  a  crawling  blindness  of  imitation.  The  old  power 
that  had  made  him  draw  without  knowing  how  he  did 
it  gathered  its  splendid  garments  and  withdrew  as 

170 


An  Elusive  Venus 


mysteriously  as  it  had  once  come  to  possess  him.  He 
drew,  but  he  would  no  longer  have  recognized  what  he 
did  as  the  work  of  his  own  hand.  He  thought  of  Griggs, 
who  had  said,  "Style? — I'd  know  a  scrap  of  your  stuff 
if  I  found  it  in  an  ash  barrel  in  Timbuctoo!" 

The  thought  of  those  friendly  men  knowing  his 
degradation  was  another  stone  on  the  grave  of  his  self- 
esteem.  It  was  this  that  made  him  wait  when  the  others 
had  gone  one  night,  to  take  down  that  first  crucified 
drawing  from  the  wall  where  it  had  remained,  torn  and 
hanging  by  one  tack. 

"Will  you  give  it  to  me?"  said  a  voice,  and,  as  he 
did  not  care  one  way  or  the  other,  the  spectacled 
young  man  put  it  in  his  portfolio.  Afterwards  Ewing 
thought  of  asking  him  why  he  wanted  it,  but  he  did 
not  come  back  again.  He  had  been  advanced  to  the 
life  class. 

The  master  did  not  speak  to  Ewing  again.  He  made, 
at  intervals  as  he  passed,  the  pantomime  of  rubbing  out. 
And  Ewing  obeyed,  beginning  each  time  the  task  that 
grew  day  by  day  more  hatefully  useless.  In  the  begin- 
ning he  had  felt  that  if  he  could  get  that  plaster  woman 
off  by  himself  he  could  draw  her.  The  long  habit  of 
solitude  had  left  him  confounded  by  the  crowd.  There 
had  been  something  almost  shameful  to  him  about  draw- 
ing publicly,  and  he  had  the  impulse  to  curl  an  arm 
about  his  sketch  to  hide  it  a  little  as  he  worked.  He 
felt  sick  with  the  hot,  dry  air  and  the  breathing  of  the 
stallful  of  men.  When  the  door  was  opened  the  odor  of 
turpentine  came  from  the  room  where  they  were  paint- 
ing. It  had  for  him  a  familiar,  happy  smell. 

"I  wish  I  could  go  in  there,"  he  said  once  to  a  fat 
youth  beside  him. 

171 


Ewing's  Lady 

"That's  what  the  dubs  always  say,"  was  the  reply. 
"It's  so  much  easier  to  paint." 

He  spent  a  day  going  around,  looking  at  the  better 
students'  work,  asking  them  how  they  had  learned 
to  draw  as  "Old  Velvet"  wanted  them  to.  They  had 
a  great  many  things  to  say  that  sounded  technical, 
but  he  heard  nothing  that  opened  a  way  to  him. 

He  hated  the  school;  he  hated  the  street  that  led  to 
it,  with  a  quiet  ground  swell  of  hatred.  But,  deepest  of 
all,  he  hated  his  own  despair.  He  felt  that  his  shattered 
courage  would  never  heal.  He  was  like  a  dishonored 
soldier  whose  sword  has  been  publicly  broken.  He 
remembered  the  fine  things  he  had  said  to  Teevan  about 
his  ambition,  and  the  blush  that  suffused  him  ached. 
At  the  thought  of  Mrs.  Laithe  bringing  him  from  his 
wild  beast's  hole,  as  if  he  had  been  worth  her  splendid 
faith,  his  heart  withered  within  him.  At  intervals  he 
started  as  if  he  suddenly  awoke,  saying  to  himself, 
"And  to  think  it  could  have  ended  like  this!" 

At  the  end  of  a  fortnight  he  sat  for  three  days  without 
doing  anything,  a  stick  of  charcoal  in  his  hand.  He 
did  not  come  again,  and  his  fat  neighbor  used  up  his 
charcoal  paper,  after  putting  fine  mustaches  on  all  his 
crouching  Venuses. 

He  had  shunned  his  acquaintances  during  this  time 
of  travail.  But  twice  had  he  seen  Teevan  since  his 
first  day  at  the  League.  He  had  tried  to  be  cheerful 
at  those  meetings,  still  hoping  the  lines  would  come  right, 
but  he  felt  each  time  that  Teevan  saw  straight  to  his 
wretched  heart  of  doubt;  and  he  would  not  risk  an- 
other meeting  until  he  could  report  an  overwhelming 
victory — or  defeat,  if  it  must  be  so. 

That  he  did  not  for  a  day  forget  his  good  friend,  there 
172 


An  Elusive  Venus 


was  ample  testimony;  though  this  was  of  a  nature  that 
Teevan  must  remain  oblivious  to.  On  the  night  of 
the  day  that  saw  his  first  buffeting  he  walked  the  streets 
until  late,  rejoicing  mournfully  that  there  were  still 
so  many  people  who  did  not  know  his  shame.  Half 
unwittingly  he  wandered  into  Ninth  Street,  and  stood 
a  long  time  opposite  Teevan's  house,  finding  a  solace 
in  his  friend's  possible  nearness.  Then,  as  the  days 
of  defeat  followed  with  so  deadly  a  sequence,  this  walk 
and  vigil  became  his  nightly  habit.  Sometimes  the 
house  was  darkened.  Then  he  felt  free  to  gaze  at  it. 
Sometimes  there  were  lights,  and  his  survey  was  brief 
and  furtive.  Until  the  very  last  there  was  always  a  bit 
of  hope  to  spice  the  melancholy  of  this  adventure:  to- 
morrow the  thing  might  be  done  as  they  all  did  it,  the 
master  be  moved  from  blame  to  praise,  and  himself 
be  free  to  enter  this  street  bravely,  noisily,  careless  of 
recognition,  to  tell  how  the  big  way  had  been  opened. 
He  had  pictured  the  pleasure  that  would  light  Teevan's 
face  as  he  heard  this  tale  of  conquest. 


173 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

MRS.    LAITHE   IS   IN 

ON  the  ultimate  night  of  defeat  Ewing  walked 
as  usual  into  Ninth  Street  for  his  vigil  before 
Teevan's  house.  He  had  come  to  a  wall  that 
must  be  scaled.  He  could  no  longer  believe  in  any 
chance  way  round  it  or  gracious  opening  through  it. 
Teevan  would  have  to  be  told,  and  he  was  sorry  for  Tee- 
van.  The  little  man  had  believed  so. 

He  scanned  the  starred  strip  of  sky  above  him  as  if 
for  words  to  renew  the  faith  of  his  friend.  His  eye  ran 
along  the  house  fronts  opposite,  but  they  were  blunt, 
uninspiring  masses  with  shut  doors  and  curtained  win- 
dows, houses  turned  away  from  him.  He  wished  for 
another  friend,  less  exacting  than  Teevan,  who  would 
take  defeat  lightly.  Then  one  of  the  houses  stood 
out  familiarly,  the  Bartell  house,  with  its  generous 
width  and  its  hospitable  white  door.  He  had  not  cared 
to  go  there  in  his  time  of  suspense,  but  now  he  was  over- 
whelmed with  a  sudden  longing  to  see  Mrs.  Laithe,  to 
feel  her  friendliness  and  confide  to  her,  perhaps,  a  hint 
of  his  plight.  At  least  he  could  look  at  her  a  little 
while,  even  if  he  told  her  nothing. 

He  crossed  the  street  quickly,  walked  toward  the 
avenue  until  he  reached  the  marble  steps,  and  rang  the 
bell.  It  occurred  to  him  dismally  while  he  waited  that 
she  might  not  be  in;  still  worse,  that  there  might  be 
people  about  who  would  keep  him  from  her.  It  had  been 

174 


Mrs.  Laithe  is  In 


so  most  of  the  few  times  he  had  called.  There  was  always 
friendliness  in  the  look  she  gave  him  across  those  shore- 
less seas  of  talk,  but  too  often  there  had  been  little  beside 
this  look. 

The  man  admitted  him  and  was  not  sure  if  Mrs.  Laithe 
was  in;  he  would  see.  Ewing  strolled  back  to  the  sooth- 
ing snugness  of  the  library  and  dropped  on  the  couch. 
Even  to  be  there  alone  was  something:  the  room  was 
alive  with  her,  and  the  restful  quietness  of  it  made  him 
conscious  all  at  once  of  the  long  strain  he  had  been 
under.  Leaning  his  head  back,  he  shut  his  eyes  in  a 
sort  of  desperate  surrender,  letting  the  tragedy  of  his 
failure  swirl  about  him.  But  something  from  the 
woman  he  awaited  seemed  to  have  flowed  in  upon  him, 
healing  his  hurt  with  gracious  little  reminders  of  her. 
He  breathed  a  long  sigh  of  relief,  and  for  a  moment 
almost  lost  himself  in  unconscious  rest.  It  was  good 
to  stop  thinking. 

It  was  thus  she  saw  him  as  she  came  softly  in,  with 
scarce  a  silken  rustle.  Her  face,  as  she  gazed,  lost  its 
look  of  welcome  and  ready  speech,  for  she  saw  all  his 
anguish  uncovered  there  before  her.  It  was  in  his  young 
face,  gaunt  and  jaded  and  bleached  to  the  city  pallor ;  in 
the  closed  eyes,  the  folded  lips ;  and  in  the  body  wearily 
relaxed.  So  little  life  he  showed,  it  seemed  to  her  he 
might  be  sleeping,  and  again,  as  at  the  other  time,  she 
was  shaken  by  a  rush  of  tenderness  for  him — tenderness 
and  fear,  alike  terrible. 

She  could  not  speak.  She  hovered  a  half  step  toward 
him,  with  a  hand  instinctively  up  to  shelter  and  cherish, 
her  eyes  wide  with  pity  and  a  great  gladness.  Poised 
so,  she  waited,  breathless. 

Though  she  had  made  no  sound,  he  thrilled  suddenly 


Ewing's  Lady 

to  the  knowledge  of  her  presence,  and  his  eyes  opened 
to  hers.  They  stared  dully  an  instant,  then  shone  with 
a  quick  light  that  held  her  exposed  and  defenseless, 
while  he  came  to  himself — for  the  first  time  in  her  pres- 
ence— as  a  man.  Helpless  to  stay  it,  she  watched  this 
consciousness  unfolding  within  him,  traced  it  lucidly 
from  its  birth  to  the  very  leaping  of  it  from  his  lips  in 
a  smothered  cry  of  want  unutterable. 

So  he  held  her  with  his  look.  Though  every  nerve 
warned  her  to  flight,  she  was  powerless  even  when  he 
started  toward  her,  raising  himself  slowly  from  the  couch 
with  his  hands ;  her  own  hand  even  groped  a  little  toward 
him,  blindly  fighting  its  way  into  both  his  own.  It 
turned  and  nestled  there,  unreasoningly,  warming  itself, 
clasping  and  unclasping.  He  towered  above  her — she 
had  never  felt  herself  so  small,  so  frail  as  now.  His  two 
hands  fiercely  smothered  her  own,  and  his  eyes  were  on 
her  with  a  look  she  had  never  seen  there,  a  look  she  could 
not  face.  It  was  then  that  her  tenderness  was  lost  in 
fear  of  him,  and  she  forced  herself  to  laugh.  She  laughed 
in  the  desperate  knowledge  that  his  rising  arm  threatened 
her  with  some  crushing,  blinding  enfoldment  where  no 
striving  would  avail  her — laughed  with  a  little  easy, 
formal  grace. 

He  fell  back  dazed,  scanning  her  in  uncomprehending 
dismay  as  they  stood  apart.  Then  he  seemed  to  recover 
himself  and  smiled  foolishly  as  she  moved  to  a  chair. 

"I'm  so  glad  you  came,"  she  began  with  nervous 
quickness.  He  dropped  back  on  the  couch,  his  eyes 
still  on  her — the  man's  eyes. 

She  endured  the  look,  but  she  could  not  suppress  the 
color  she  felt  rising  in  her  face.  It  seemed  to  her  that 
her  strength  must  go  if  the  moment  lasted  a  little  longer. 

176 


Mrs.  Laithe  is  In 


She  knew  now  that  in  the  weeks  of  his  absence  she  had 
longed  for  this  look — for  the  fearful  joy  of  it — and  the 
realization  left  her  overpowered. 

At  last,  to  her  relief,  he  muttered  some  conventional 
phrase  of  his  own  pleasure  in  seeing  her.  But  the  look 
of  the  man  still  held  her,  an  implacable  look.  She  felt 
that  the  shy,  embarrassed  boy  in  him  was  gone  forever. 
She  had  aged  him  all  in  a  moment.  There  was  something 
splendidly  ruthless  in  his  gaze,  and  in  place  of  the  con- 
fusion she  was  wont  to  wreak  on  him  he  showed  a  strange, 
dogged  coolness. 

"  You've  changed,"  he  continued.  "  You're  not  well." 
The  wondrous  deep  alarm  of  his  tone  warmed  her  through 
and  through.  She  murmured  a  careless  disavowal, 
and  her  low  laugh,  like  the  little  comprehending  chuckle 
of  a  pleased  child,  banished  from  her  face  for  a  moment 
its  almost  haggard  set.  But  the  face  was  flatly  white 
again  under  the  dark  of  her  hair,  and  the  white  gown 
defined  her  frailness  and  drooping,  as  of  some  pale,  long- 
stemmed  flower  fainting  of  languor  in  the  still  heat  of 
late  summer. 

"You  are  whiter  than  ever,"  he  insisted,  "whiter 
and  finer.  You  are  like  a  white  rose  that  is  beginning 
to  let  its  petals  fall.  You — you  are  beyond  anything 
now."  She  laughed  helplessly,  as  people  laugh  at 
something  insupportable. 

"You're  going  to  tell  me  that  people  don't  talk  that 
way  here,"  he  went  on,  with  his  old  fling  of  the  head, 
like  that  of  a  horse  about  to  gallop  off,  "but  you  under- 
stand me."  He  sighed,  remembering  his  trouble  for 
the  first  time.  "But  you  understand  me,"  he  repeated, 
with  a  wistful  attenuation  of  the  words. 

"Yes,    I   understand — everything,"    she   said,   seeing 

177 


Ewing's  Lady 


again  the  amazing  sadness  in  him.  Her  look  seized 
all  the  dejection  of  his  attitude,  the  listless  lean  of  his 
head,  once  upheld  so  gayly  on  the  strong  neck.  She  had 
to  exert  her  will  not  to  go  nearer  to  him.  She  turned 
away  and  closed  her  eyes  for  a  moment  to  shut  him  out, 
then  opened  them  quickly  and  began  to  berate  him 
charmingly  for  having  neglected  her.  "  I've  thought  of 
you  so  much  oftener  than  I've  seen  you,"  she  concluded. 

He  floundered  in  the  old  shyness.  It  had  come  sud- 
denly on  him  when  he  thought  of  himself. 

"I've  been — at  work." 

"Your  face  shows  it,"  she  said,  with  a  swift,  unsteady 
look.  "You  have  changed,  too.  You  actually  look  ill." 

He  reddened  slowly  under  her  scrutiny,  stammering 
protestations,  but  her  eyes  were  open  to  him.  She 
shrugged  herself  together  and  assumed  a  brisk,  motherly 
air. 

"  Is  it  as  bad  as  that — truly?  And  you  told  me  nothing 
of  it!  Come — I  want  to  know."  There  was  a  ring  of 
authority  in  her  voice  as  she  leaned  toward  him,  her 
great  eyes  full  of  pity  and  succor.  "  Is  the  world  differ- 
ent from  what  you  thought?  Let  me  know — where  does 
it  hurt?  That's  what  they  say  to  children." 

Challenged  thus  directly,  he  felt  shame  at  the  thought 
of  confession  equally  direct.  He  would  come  to  it 
only  by  winding  ways,  asserting  at  first  that  there  was 
no  trouble;  then  that  the  trouble  was  but  a  little  one; 
and  insisting  at  last  that,  though  the  trouble  was  great, 
it  might  have  been  greater. 

Her  eyes  beat  upon  him  insistently  while  she  drove 
him  to  these  admissions.  Then  she  was  eager  with 
attention  while  he  compelled  himself  to  details.  He  told 
of  his  two  weeks'  humiliation  at  the  school,  not  sparing 

178 


Mrs.  Laithe  is  In 


himself,  confessing  his  lack  of  power,  and  the  pain  this 
discovery  had  cost  him.  When  he  had  finished,  with 
a  self -belittling  shrug,  she  sat  silent,  bending  forward, 
her  hands  loosely  clasped,  her  eyes  fixed  away  from 
him. 

Now  that  it  was  over  he  felt  a  sudden  lightening  of 
his  mood,  a  swift  consciousness  of  reliance  on  the  woman, 
a  foreknowledge  that  her  words  would  profit  him.  At 
last  she  brought  her  eyes  upon  him  and  cut  to  the  heart 
of  his  woe  with  a  single  stroke. 

"The  thing  is  nothing  in  itself."  He  drew  a  long 
breath  of  relief.  "It's  in  the  way  you  take  it.  If  it 
weakens  you,  it's  bad.  If  it  strengthens  you,  it's  good. 
Call  the  thing  '  failure '  if  you  like — but  what  has  it  done 
to  you?" 

"Why,  of  course" — he  broke  off  to  laugh  under  her 
waiting  look — "of  course  I'm  still  in  the  race.  I  see 
now  that  I  haven't  really  doubted  myself  at  all."  He 
looked  at  her  with  sudden  sharpness.  "  I'd  be  ashamed 
to  doubt  myself  before  you."  He  sprang  to  his  feet  in 
the  excitement  of  this  discovery  and  stood  alertly  before 
her. 

"It  doesn't  mean  anything,  does  it?"  he  went  on 
quickly.  "You  believe  in  me?" 

She  laughed  defensively.  "I  believe  in  you  now. 
You  look  so  much  less  like  a  whipped  schoolboy." 

"  I  won't  forget  again.  That  school  isn't  for  me.  I 
can  do  things  those  poor  charcoal  dusters  won't  do  for 
years  yet.  I  know  that.  Baldwin  said  they'd  spoil 
me  if  I  wasn't  stubborn,  and  I  was  stubborn — I  am. 
You  believe  I'm  stubborn,  don't  you?" 

She  smiled  assurance.  "You  have  it — can  you  use 
it?" 

179 


Ewing's  Lady 


"You'll  see!"  He  sat  down,  continuing  almost 
apologetically,  "  I  worried  more  about  the  effect  on  others 
than  on  myself.  It  was  that  threw  me  down,  a  fear 
that  other  people  might  think  I  was  some  pretentious 
fool  who  had  come  here  to  get  over  big  things  and 
stumbled  at  the  first  little  one.  I  was  deathly  afraid 
of  hurting  other  people." 

His  eyes  had  been  steadily  upon  hers  with  an  under- 
current of  consciousness  for  what  he  would  have  called 
the  "queerness"  of  her  look,  a  baffling  look  that  hinted 
of  many  things — of  sympathy,  consternation,  rejoicing, 
even  of  embarrassment,  and  yet  it  had  not  distinctly 
been  any  one  of  these,  so  quick  had  been  the  play  of 
light  in  her  eyes  to  the  moment  they  fell  before  his. 

She  released  her  breath  with  a  sound  like  a  sigh,  as 
if  she  had  been  holding  it,  and  there  was  another  look 
in  her  eyes  when  she  at  last  raised  them  to  his,  one  that 
he  could  not  read,  save  that  it  was  wholly  serious  and, 
he  felt,  peculiarly  a  woman's  look. 

"I  am  sure,"  she  began,  "that  no  one — no  one  you 
consider  in  this  way,  could  think  less  of  you  for  a  failure. 
You  ought  to  know  that.  I  want  you  to  know  it."  She 
rose  from  her  chair  and  stepped  to  the  table  with  a  little 
shrug,  turning  over  the  leaves  of  a  magazine,  her  back 
toward  him.  At  last  she  turned  her  head  only,  looking 
at  him  over  one  shoulder  and  speaking  with  a  laughing, 
reckless  impatience. 

"  Oh,  fail — fail — fail  as  often  as  you  like — fail  a  hun- 
dred times  and  then — fail."  He  felt  his  cheeks  burning 
under  her  vehemence.  She  turned  about,  facing  him 
squarely. 

"  Have  I  said  enough?  Do  you  know  what  I  think  of 
failures  now?" 

180 


Mrs.  Laithe  is  In 


He  rose  and  stood  before  her.  "You  don't  know  what 
you've  done  for  me.  You  don't  know — "  Again  came 
that  crude  impulse  to  take  her  in  his  arms.  It  left  him 
feeling  like  a  criminal.  As  if  she  had  discerned  this  she 
resumed  her  seat,  speaking  quickly. 

"  Go  back  to  that  studio  and  do  things.  Do  them  your 
own  way.  It's  a  better  way  for  you  than  any  they  can 
teach  you,  and  the  next  time " 

"The  next  time  I  have  a  hell " 

" — a  hell  of  doubt — don't  wait — come  to  me."  She 
rose  from  her  chair. 

"You  don't  know  all  this  has  meant  to  me,"  he  said 
feelingly  as  she  gave  him  her  hand. 

"Good  night!"  And  though  the  gray  eyes  were  hid- 
den from  his,  there  was  the  look  in  them  of  one  who 
knows  more  than  she  is  thought  to  know. 

As  Ewing  went  out  the  man  was  admitting  the  younger 
Teevan,  who  asked  for  Mrs.  Laithe.  Ewing  wished  it 
had  been  the  father.  He  had  much  of  good  to  tell  the 
little  man  now. 

Neither  Mrs.  Laithe  nor  Teevan  spoke  of  Ewing  after 
their  greeting,  though  each  was  so  busy  in  thought  of 
him  that  their  talk  was  scant  and  aimless  for  the  first 
five  minutes.  Alden  Teevan  was  brought  back  to  her 
at  length  by  noticing  the  drawn,  tired  look  of  her  face, 
for  the  sparkle  that  Ewing  had  left  there  was  gone. 

"Nell,  you  look  done  up.  I'm  no  alarmist,  but  you 
really  need  to  be  frightened.  What  is  it  you're  doing 
to  take  you  down  so — the  same  old  round?  Is  it  a 
visiting  guild  now,  or  the  Comforters  of  the  Worthy 
Poor,  or  just  amateur  nursing  of  sin,  sickness,  and 
death?" 

She  smiled  wanly. 

181 


Ewing's  Lady 


"  The  same  old  round,  Alden.  I  can't  keep  away  from 
it  when  I  am  here.  I  know  it  so  well.  No  one  could 
keep  away  who  knew  it  well." 

"  Futile,  futile,  futile !   Are  you  equal  to  a  revolution  ?  " 

"  More's  the  pity,  no.  And  I've  no  time  for  one.  I've 
a  whole  family  of  consumptives  on  my  hands  at  this 
moment,  father,  mother,  two  girls  and  a  boy." 

"And  you  wear  yourself  out  over  a  few  minor  effects 
like  that,  instead  of  going  at  the  cause.  You  may  save 
one  or  two  of  those  people — none  of  them  of  any  value, 
individually;  while  the  same  energy  put  to  the  root  of 
the  evil  might  save  thousands — and  they  are  of  value  in 
the  mass.  Think  me  calloused  if  you  like,  but  that's 
mere  common  sense  economy  of  effort.  You  and  I — • 
our  class — make  them  live  as  they  do,  and  we  grow  maud- 
lin over  it  and  take  them  a  little  soup  and  many  tracts. 
But  we  won't  remit  our  tithes.  We  keep  them  down 
to  breed  more  misery  for  the  exercise  of  our  little  phil- 
anthropic fads.  I'm  radical,  you  see." 

She  turned  her  head  away  with  a  hand  wave  that 
seemed  to  dismiss  an  argument  familiar  and  outworn. 

"I  know — but  I  must  do  what  I  can." 

He  faced  her  with  a  sudden  insistent  energy. 

"Come  away,  Nell — come  farther  off.  You're  too 
close  to  the  ugly  things  now — you  lose  the  perspective. 
Come  away — and  come  with  me,  won't  you,  Nell? 
Come  away  and  live.  I  must  say  it — I  must  ask  it — 
come!" 

He  read  the  inexorable  in  the  lift  of  her  head. 

"I  understand,  Alden — and  I  thank  you — but  no." 
She  glanced  across  at  him  and  continued  more  lightly, 
"  I  wasn't  meant  to  go  far  off — to  go  above  timber  line, 
as  Mr.  Bwing  would  say." 

182 


Mrs.  Laithe  is  In 


He  felt  bitterness  rising  in  him  at  her  mention  of  the 
name,  but  he  laughed  it  away. 

"  You'll  always  do  the  hardest  thing,  Nell.  I  know 
that.  But  I — well,  one  of  the  old  heathen — Heraclitus, 
wasn't  it? — remarked  that  the  ass,  after  all,  would  have 
his  thistles  rather  than  much  fine  gold." 

She  laughed.  "Dad  would  say,  the  more  ass  he,  if 
he  wouldn't." 

"  I  know — we'd  rather  have  our  own  particular  thistles, 
each  of  us.  But  to  live  a  day  or  two  before  we  die,  Nell! 
Come  with  me — stop  trying  to  mount  the  whirlwind. 
You'll  only  be  thrown." 

Again  she  shook  her  head,  and  gently  shaped  "No!" 
with  her  lips.  It  was  too  unemotionally  decisive  to  war- 
rant of  any  further  urging,  and  he  became  silent,  with 
something  of  pain  in  his  face  that  her  eye  caught. 

"I'm  sorry,  Alden — I've  never  liked  you  better — but 
I'd  rather  you  didn't  ask." 

"You  wouldn't  have  come  before,  would  you,  Nell — 
three  months  ago?"  And  she  answered  "No"  again, 
very  quickly. 

"I  must  play  my  little  game  out  in  my  own  way," 
she  continued.  "I  must  stay  beside  some  one — beside 
people — who  still  have  heart  for  trying." 

"Someone,  Nell?" 

She  caught  her  lip. 

"Everyone  who  has  fresh  hope  and  stubbornness  in 
defeat." 

"If  you'd  let  me,  Nell—"  There  was  the  note  of 
real  pleading  in  his  tone. 

"No,  Alden." 

"Friends,  though?"  he  queried,  seeming  at  last 
convinced. 

183 


Ewing's  Lady 


She  thought  there  was  a  trace  of  bitterness  in  his 
voice,  but  she  answered,  "Friends,  surely,  Alden." 

"We've  skirted  this  thing  often,  Nell,  but  you  never 
seemed  certain  before." 

"  I  didn't — I  think  I  never  was  quite  so  certain  before, 
Alden — but  now  I'm  driven  all  one  way." 

"I  believe  that."  He  rose  and  spoke  in  a  livelier 
manner.  "But  if  you  won't  be  wise  for  me,  Nell,  be 
wise  for  some  one  else.  For  God's  sake  feel  a  little  worry 
about  your  health.  I  say  you  look  unpromising  at  this 
moment." 

"I've  always  been  well,"  she  insisted  brightly. 

"And,  Nell,  I've  wanted  to  be  so  much  more  than  a 
friend  to  you  that  my  feelings  are  a  bit  blurred  just  now 
— but  I  believe  I'll  always  do  what  a  friend  should." 


184 


CHAPTER  XIX 

UNBIvAZED   WAY 


EWING  was  loath  to  sleep  that  night,  for  in  sleep 
he  must  leave  the  thought  of  her  who,  having 
been  only  a  picture  to  him,  had  come  suddenly 
to  life.  The  magic  would  have  seemed  no  greater  if 
his  own  mother  had  issued  livingly  from  the  canvas. 
How  it  had  happened  he  knew  not,  but  this  woman 
was  all  at  once  the  living  spring  of  his  life.  The  thought 
of  her  was  a  golden  mist  enveloping  him.  He  did  not 
once  call  it  love,  but  he  thought  of  the  gracious  women 
he  had  loved  in  books,  and  knew  she  was  all  of  them  in 
one. 

And  once  he  had  been  almost  careless  in  her  presence  ! 
How  he  marveled  at  that  now,  when  he  knew  that  hence- 
forth every  approach  to  her  would  be  an  event.  He 
shuddered  at  the  memory  of  what  he  had  been  saved  from 
—  that  swift  brute  impulse  to  hold  her  close  against  his 
breast.  Must  he  feel  that  always  —  fight  it  always,  to  be 
blasted  if  he  lost?  At  least  in  his  own  secret  world  he 
was  free  to  treasure  each  memory  of  her  dearness. 
And  he  could  make  her  glad.  He  could  work  as  man 
had  not  worked  before.  He  could  make  her  a  little 
glad. 

He  feverishly  began  a  drawing  for  the  Knickerbocker 
the  next  morning.  Craig,  the  art  editor,  had  said  that 
he  could  use  six  drawings  as  good  as  the  two  he  was 
shown,  and  they  had  decided  on  scenes  that  would  give 

13  185 


Ewing's  Lady 

variety  to  the  series.  But  that  was  before  a  Teevan 
had  come  into  his  life,  and  now  he  had  lost  a  month  in 
the  dream  of  satisfying  that  patron  critic. 

It  was  good  to  prove  that  he  could  still  draw  in  his 
own  way ;  he  had  suffered  so  long  in  that  rage  of  impo- 
tence ;  and  he  kept  to  the  work  until  dusk,  making  no  stop 
for  food,  even  when  the  noise  of  falling  bodies  came  to 
mark  the  luncheon  hour. 

When  Teevan  sauntered  in  at  six  the  two  went  to 
dine  at  a  restaurant.  Ewing  had  no  longer  dreaded  the 
meeting.  He  was  ready  to  show  Teevan  that  there  had 
been  no  true  failure.  But  Teevan  merely  listened  to  the 
bare  outline  of  fact  as  they  threaded  a  way  through  the 
evening  crowd.  He  made  no  comment,  and  Ewing 
thought  this  might  be  due  to  the  difficulty  of  conversing 
in  a  noisy  street. 

But  after  ordering  dinner  with  a  nice  deliberation, 
Teevan  spoke  determinedly  of  other  matters.  Ewing 
ventured  a  humorous  reference  to  his  despair  when  he 
left  the  school,  meaning  to  compel  the  inference  that  he 
no  longer  despaired.  Teevan  languidly  mentioned  a 
violinist  he  had  heard  the  evening  before. 

" — Two  Bach  numbers,  the  suite  in  F  minor  rather 
exquisitely  done.  Bach  wrote  tremendously  well  for 
the  riddle.  Technical  skill  in  the  performer,  you  ask? 
Yes,  entirely  adequate;  indeed,  he  gave  rather  a  warm 
reading,  really  not  lacking  a  certain  elevation  of  style, 
even  a  nobility  of  utterance.  That  was  quite  all  of 
interest,  though.  The  Dvorak  humoresque — a  thing 
transcribed  from  a  piano  piece  and  made  sentimental — 
has  one  of  those  effective  passages  in  double  notes,  cer- 
tain to  win  an  encore  from  the  mob;  and  the  twenty- 
fourth  caprice  of  Paganini  was  merely  a  smart  exhibi- 

186 


The  Unblazed  Way 


tion  of  harmonic  playing — mere  squibs  and  firecrackers 
and  rockets,  the  veriest  fireworks.  Ah,  it's  small  wonder 
the  world  has  so  few  artists  when  it  demands  so  little." 
And  Teevan  sighed  significantly. 

Bwing  was  chilled  by  this  avoidance  of  himself, 
though  he  could  not  yet  believe  it  intentional. 

"I  haven't  given  up,"  he  declared,  by  way  of  remind- 
ing Teevan.  "You  shall  see  that  I'm  stubborn." 

Teevan  affected  to  study  a  group  of  diners  at  a 
neighboring  table  as  he  replied: 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  gather  that  you  left  the  school  when  you 
found  it  difficult." 

"But  you  see " 

"  This  soup  is  worth  while,  really.  Soup  is  surprisingly 
difficult.  Yet  the  world  believes  perfect  soups  to  be 
plentiful."  He  sighed  again.  "It  merely  shows  the 
vitality  of  error." 

Ewing  felt  his  woman-given  courage  leaving  him  at 
this  attack,  or  rather  at  this  lack  of  attack.  He  had 
been  prepared  to  have  his  friend  exhibit  doubt,  disbe- 
lief, chagrin — anything  that  would  still  show  an  undimin- 
ished  esteem.  But  the  intimate  note  had  gone  from 
Teevan's  speech.  He  talked  at  large  as  Ewing  had 
heard  him  talk  to  roomfuls  of  people. 

"Ah,  yes,  the  vitality  of  error.  Give  the  world  a  lie 
about  soup  or  souls,  and  you'll  not  soon  worry  that  lie 
away.  It's  clutched  with  a  bulldog  jaw.  Say  good 
soup  is  common — God-fearing  Christians  echo  the  lie. 
Say  Berkeley  denies  the  existence  of  matter,  and  men 
with  Berkeley  at  hand  repeat  you.  Say  Locke  denies 
all  knowledge  except  through  the  medium  of  the  senses, 
and  students  of  Locke  pass  on  the  absurdity.  Bacon 
was  by  no  means  the  first  thinker  to  proclaim  the  defi- 

is? 


E wing's  Lady 

ciencies  of  the  Aristotelian  philosophy — a  system  already 
in  disrepute  when  he  wrote  the  'Instauration.'  Yet 
in  our  crude  yearning  for  concreteness,  for  specific  idols, 
we  laud  him  as  the  father  of  the  inductive  philosophy — 
as  if  induction  weren't  an  inevitable  process  in  any  mind 
grown  beyond  primitive  concepts.  Gad!  I  had  a  dog 
once  that  used  induction  a  dozen  times  a  day,  and  he'd 
never  so  much  as  heard  of  Bacon." 

Thus  he  wandered  afield  during  the  dinner,  with  airs 
of  a  bored  but  conscientious  host,  and  Ewing  fell  lower 
of  heart  at  each  of  his  periods.  He  hoped  for  his  chance 
when  the  coffee  came,  but  Teevan  gave  him  no  opening. 
The  brandy  sufficed  for  his  text.  We  were  not  .brandy- 
drinkers,  unhappily  enough — "the  wholesomest  of  all 
spirits,  the  distilled  essence  of  cognac  grapes,  the  magic 
cup  of  Circe,  'her  Orient  liquor  in  a  crystal  glass' — and 
we  know  as  little  how  to  drink  a  liqueur  brandy  as  we 
know  how  to  buy  it.  We  gulp  it  from  these  straight 
glasses,  when  it  should  be  taken  in  sips  from  a  glass  small 
at  the  top,  a  glass  first  warmed  in  the  palm  of  the  hand. 
Only  so  may  we  capture  the  bouquet,  that  elusive  fra- 
grance of  the  May- vine  blossom,  that  wraith  of  spring- 
perfumes." 

Ewing  was  still  unjustified  when  the  waiter  helped  them 
on  with  their  coats,  and  then  he  was  dismayed  to  observe 
that  Teevan  apparently  meant  to  leave  him.  The  little 
man  held  out  his  hand  with  "So  glad  to  have  had  your 
company — another  time — I  shall  see  you  again,  I  hope." 

"  Please  come  back  with  me.  I'd  like  to  talk  to  you — 
to  ask  your  advice."  He  felt  himself  an  outcast. 

Teevan's  response,  a  surprised  but  coldly  polite  assent, 
did  not  lighten  his  dejection  as  they  walked  back  to  the 
studio  in  silence. 

1 88 


The  Unblazed  Way 


But  once  there  the  little  man  no  longer  avoided  talk 
of  his  young  friend's  fiasco.  He  let  it  be  seen  that 
another  illusion,  one  fondly  cherished,  he  need  not  say, 
had  been  shattered.  He  gave  the  impression  that  he 
had  talked  of  other  things  to  forget  this — an  inadequate 
device,  he  let  it  be  inferred. 

Ewing  confessed  his  own  despondency  of  the  night  be- 
fore, but  told  how  a  woman  had  given  him  new  courage. 

"Not  the  least  injury  they  do  us,"  remarked  Teevan 
of  women,  somewhat  snappishly,  "is  to  wheedle  us  into 
taking  our  failures  lightly."  That  were  especially 
baneful  to  the  artist,  it  seemed;  by  his  very  tempera- 
ment was  he  exposed  to  their  blandishing  sophistries. 
The  artist  cult  should  be  a  priesthood,  aloof,  austere, 
celibate — deaf  to  the  woman  cries  of  "Never  mind!" 
and  "Courage!"  and  "Another  day!"  All  very  well 
that,  but  they  shut  their  pretty  eyes  to  real  failures, 
or,  at  most,  survey  them  with  a  tender  air  of  belittle- 
ment  that  leaves  the  defeated  one  blind  to  their  signif- 
icance. Speaking  largely,  the  society  of  women  should 
be  shunned  by  earnest  men  intent  on  achievement. 

Ewing  began  to  feel  that  possibly  he  had  taken  heart 
too  readily.  He  was  willing  to  believe  this  if  it  would 
restore  him  to  the  little  man's  esteem.  He  pointed 
timidly  to  the  drawing  he  had  begun  that  morning, 
eager  for  the  word  of  praise  he  believed  it  to  merit. 

"Oh,  that!"  Teevan  drawled  the  words,  with  lifted 
brows;  then  went  on  to  speak  of  Jean  Francois  Millet, 
unprosperous  villager  of  Barbizon.  He  tried — unsuc- 
cessfully— to  recall  an  instance  when  that  painter  had 
debased  his  art.  Not  once  had  he  made  a  cheap  picture 
for  a  magazine.  He  had  never  put  his  Muse  to  the 
streets.  Millet  was  not  pigeon-livered. 

180 


Ewing's  Lady 

Ewing  leaned  forward  in  his  chair,  his  head  between 
his  hands.  He  saw  that  the  mere  sale  of  drawings 
would  be  a  savorless  success,  if  it  bereft  him  of  this 
plain-speaking  but  just  friend.  More,  it  would  leave 
him  small  in  the  eyes  of  a  woman  who  was  now  even 
more  than  Teevan.  He  got  up  doggedly,  seized  the 
drawing  and  began  to  break  the  tough  bristol  board, 
getting  it  into  four  pieces  at  length  and  flinging  these 
into  the  grate.  He  was  unable  to  resist  a  secret  fond 
look  at  the  lines  he  had  made  with  such  loving  care. 
Teevan's  eyes  glistened  now,  and  he  held  out  a  hand 
to  Ewing. 

"Ah — you  give  me  hope.     Bravo!" 

"Then  you  do  believe  in  me;  you  think  I  have  it  in 
me?" 

"Power?  Yes;  I've  seen  that.  I  judge  men  rather 
accurately.  But  I  saw  that  you'd  be  tempted  to  rest. 
The  more  power,  the  greater  the  temptation.  It's 
not  so  hard  to  fast  in  a  desert — the  less-gifted  man  is 
less  tempted.  But  to  fast  with  plenty  at  hand  for  the 
reaching,  and  fair  women  to  counsel  content — to  refuse 
apples  and  flagons,  waiting  for  the  ultimate  jewel — 
that  takes  a  man.  It  demands  one — there's  a  certain 
street  saying — who  can  'stand  the  gaff.'" 

"And  you  really  think  I  can  stand  it?  I  feel  more 
than  ever  that  I  want  to  succeed." 

Teevan  beamed  on  him  almost  affectionately.  "  I 
almost  suspect " 

"You  shall  see  that  I  can,"  Ewing  broke  in,  but  what 
he  thought  was,  "She  will  see  it." 

"It's  a  matter  of  endurance,"  resumed  Teevan  geni- 
ally. "Genius  is  no  endowment  of  supreme  gifts. 
Every  man  of  us  has  something  latent  that  would  set 

190 


The  Unblazed  Way 


him  apart.  Genius  is  only  the  capacity  for  expressing 
that — that  phase  of  yourself  which  differentiates  you 
from  all  other  selves.  Of  course  only  a  few  succeed. 
Most  of  us  succumb  to  the  general  pressure  to  be  alike. 
Yet — I  almost  believe  in  you." 

Ewing  regarded  him  with  glad  eyes,  touched  by  this 
stanch  yet  discerning  adherence. 

Returning  home  that  night  Teevan,  in  his  library, 
took  down  a  Bible  and  searched  for  a  passage  he  only 
half  recalled.  He  found  it  at  last,  one  wherein  the  God 
of  Israel  thunders,  not  without  humor,  against  the  foes 
of  His  chosen  tribe. 

"  I  will  send  a  faintness  into  their  hearts  in  the  land 
of  their  enemies;  and  the  sound  of  a  shaken  leaf  shall 
chase  them ;  and  they  shall  flee  as  fleeing  from  a  sword ; 
and  they  shall  fall  when  none  pursueth."  He  chuckled 
delightedly  as  he  read  it,  and  wiped  tears  of  mirth  from 
his  eyes. 

So  it  befell  that  Ewing  forsook  the  beaten  road  of 
minor  achievement  that  winter,  and  labored  toward 
the  far,  high  peaks.  In  his  own  phrase,  the  trail  was 
rough  and  blind.  Preceding  climbers  had  not  been 
thoughtful  to  "blaze"  it.  But  he  grudged  no  effort 
while  he  had  the  little  man's  applause.  And  this 
was  not  lacking,  though  it  was  discreet  applause,  pro- 
moting no  slothful  content. 

It  was  Ewing  who  suggested  that  he  paint  under  the 
criticism  of  Sydenham.  The  little  man  looked  at  him 
in  doubt,  seeming  to  suspect  a  jesting  insincerity,  then 
burst  into  hearty,  hand -clapping  laughter,  crying, 
"Splendid!  An  inspiration,  indeed!  On  my  word, 
I  hadn't  thought  of  anything  half  so  brilliant." 

And  Ewing  began  to  paint;  to  paint  like  Sydenham, 

191 


E wing's  Lady 


if  he  might — cloud  studies,  bits  of  street  perspective, 
stretches  of  river,  a  realistic  view  of  the  roofs  from  his 
window,  with  their  water  butts,  chimney  pots,  and 
clothes  lines.  Baldwin  looked  in  once,  and  carried  a 
word  below  to  the  men  who  sold  things:  the  word 
"Awful!"  He  also  ventured  a  friendly  remonstrance 
to  Ewing.  "If  you're  going  to  paint,  for  God's  sake 
go  to  some  man  who  knows  how!" 

Ewing  referred  to  Teevan's  conviction  that  Syden- 
ham  was  the  ideal  master  for  him,  and  to  the  attested 
fact  that  Teevan  knew  painting  and  painters. 

"Then  I  don't  understand  Teevan,"  was  Baldwin's 
puzzled  response. 

"But  I'm  coming  on — Teevan  says  so." 

Baldwin  ventured  another  look  at  the  canvas  in 
hand  and  fled  below. 

Teevan  was  watchful  and  permitted  few  chances  for 
meddling  of  this  sort.  He  contrived  to  be  with  Ewing 
most  of  the  time  when  Sydenham  was  not.  And  Ewing 
never  tired  of  Sydenham.  If  they  walked  the  streets 
together  the  old  man  would  direct  his  eye  to  some 
unnoticed  felicity  of  color  on  the  walls  that  shut  them 
in,  to  bits  of  enchanting  perspective,  to  subtle  plays  of 
light  and  shade  in  unpromising  spots.  Or  if  they  sat 
alone  at  night  the  painter  told  of  color  in  the  world 
beyond  the  sea;  how  from  the  top  of  Mont  Blanc  the 
stars  are  seen  at  midday,  points  of  vivid  light  in  a  dark 
blue-violet  field ;  of  the  purple  nights  of  the  desert,  the 
stars  but  an  arrowshot  above;  of  the  cold,  pale  silvers 
of  dawn  in  the  desert,  and  the  heated  gold  and  scarlet  of 
evening;  of  the  impossible  blue  of  the  bay  of  Naples.  His 
face  glowed  to  such  youthfulness  at  these  times  that 
Ewing  would  forget  his  futile  years  until  the  sigh  came. 

192 


The  Unblazed  Way 


"  But  I've  always  seen  too  much.  Only  the  fountain 
of  Juventius  could  have  given  me  time  enough.  I'm 
like  the  lad  in  the  school-reader  tale  who  reached  into 
the  jar  of  nuts  and  tried  to  withdraw  his  hand  full — and 
lost  them  all." 

Between  Bwing  and  Teevan  there  was  even  a  new 
bond.  Ewing  discovered  that  money  inevitably  left 
one's  pocket  in  New  York,  even  if  it  vanished  under 
auspices  less  violent  and  less  obscure  than  Ben  had  so 
gloomily  feared.  The  steady  dribble  was  quite  as 
effective.  When  he  awoke  to  this  great  fiscal  truth 
he  saw  that  some  condescension  of  effort  would  be 
required.  He  must  sell  enough  drawings  to  sustain 
him  modestly.  He  broached  this  regrettable  neces- 
sity to  Teevan,  wishing  the  little  man  to  understand 
that,  in  making  a  few  things  for  money,  he  was  guilty 
of  no  treachery  to  the  Teevan  ideal.  But  Teevan, 
much  to  his  embarrassment,  had  extended  the  full 
hand  of  bestowal. 

He  was  hurt  when  Ewing  demurred;  then  annoyed 
that  so  petty  an  obstacle  should  retard  a  progress  so 
splendid.  He  never  dared  to  suspect  a  decadence  in 
the  resolution  of  his  young  friend. 

Ewing  was  cut  by  his  distress,  stung  by  his  doubt, 
and  persuaded  by  his  logic.  He  accepted  Teevan's 
money,  though  not  without  instinctive  misgiving. 
There  were  moments  when  he  traitorously  wondered 
if  it  might  not  be  better  for  him  to  lack  a  friend  with 
ideals  so  rigid.  And  more  than  once  he  suffered  the 
disquieting  suspicion  of  some  unreality  in  and  through 
it  all — his  intimacy  with  Teevan,  and  his  desertion  of  a 
trail  whose  beginnings,  at  least,  he  knew.  There  was 
sometimes  a  faint  ring  of  artificiality  in  the  whole  situa- 


Ewing's  Lady 

tion.  Yet  Teevan's  heartiness  and  his  certainty — 
the  felicitous  certainty  of  a  star  in  its  course — always 
dispelled  this  vague  unquiet,  and  at  last  it  brought 
Ewing  a  new  pleasure  to  remember  that  an  actual, 
material  obligation — one  increasing  at  measured  inter- 
vals— now  existed  between  them. 

He  had  never  spoken  openly  to  Mrs.  I/aithe  of  his 
intimacy  with  Teevan.  The  little  man  had  conveyed 
his  wish  of  this  by  indirect  speech.  He  would  have 
liked  to  tell  her  of  the  solace  and  substantial  benefits 
of  their  comradeship,  to  dwell  upon  the  shining  merits 
of  this  whole-souled  but  modest  benefactor — for  Teevan 
caused  his  charge  to  infer  that  a  shame  of  doing  good 
openly  inspired  his  hints — but  he  had,  perforce,  to  let 
the  praise  die  unspoken. 

Nor  did  he  speak  often  of  Mrs.  Laithe  to  Teevan,  for 
the  little  man  was  not  only  bitter  as  to  woman's  influ- 
ence on  the  life  artistic,  but  inclined  to  hold  the  sex 
lightly,  it  seemed,  in  a  much  wider  aspect.  And  he 
spoke,  Ewing  was  sure,  out  of  a  ripe  experience.  He 
had  no  difficulty  in  detecting,  under  the  little  man's  self- 
depreciating  talk,  that  Teevan  had  ever  been  a  power 
among  women,  and  was  not  even  yet  invincibly  averse 
to  gallant  adventure ;  not  yet  a  man  to  be  resisted.  He 
was  far  from  bluntly  confessing  this,  but  sometimes, 
when  the  brandy  was  low  in  the  decanter,  he  would 
tacitly  admit  a  romantic  past;  romantic,  perhaps,  to 
the  point  of  turbulence.  And  once,  when  there  was  no 
brandy  left,  he  spoke  of  specific  affairs,  particularly 
of  one  the  breaking  off  of  which  was  giving  him  the 
devil's  own  worry. 

"Gad!  She's  bent  on  sacrificing  everything  for 
me!" 

194 


The  Unblazed  Way 


Ewing  innocently  murmured  words  about  marriage 
as  an  honorable  estate. 

"Marriage!"  said  Teevan,  and  Ewing  blushed,  noting 
his  tone  and  the  lift  of  his  brows. 

"Poor,  silly,  romantic  fools!"  sighed  Teevan.  "One 
would  find  it  difficult  to  say  what  they  see  in  me,  I 
fancy." 

Ewing  murmured  polite  protestations.  But  less 
than  ever  did  he  feel  moved  to  speak  of  Mrs.  Laithe 
to  the  little  man.  It  did  not  seem  fitting.  "Don  Juan" 
had  been  among  the  verse  with  which  the  lake  cabin 
was  supplied. 

Not  even  when  Mrs.  Laithe  was  taken  off  to  Florida 
by  her  father  did  he  speak  her  name,  though  he  was 
filled  with  her  good-by  to  him.  There  had  seemed 
to  be  so  much  between  them,  and  yet  so  little  of  it  that 
could  come  to  words.  But  he  carried  for  long  the  last 
look  of  her  eyes,  and  he  set  to  his  work  with  a  new 
resolve.  There  was  incentive  enough.  Teevan  never 
let  him  forget  that  he  required  signs  and  miracles,  like 
the  doubting  ones  of  old.  And  she — she  knew  he 
would  perform  them. 


195 


CHAPTER  XX 

A   LADY   BLUSHES 

AS  the  winter  wore  on  Ewing  fell  into  doubt  and 
dread.  Vague  enough  they  were,  but  they  rested 
on  a  sickening  effect  of  emptiness,  a  time  blank 
of  achievement.  He  still  regarded  Teevan  as  quite  all 
of  the  seven  pillars  of  the  house  of  wisdom.  Yet  in- 
stinct was  rebelling.  There  were  tired  afternoons  when 
he  hungered  to  eat  of  the  fruit  of  his  own  way. 

This  feeling  could  not  but  show  in  his  occasional 
letters  to  Mrs.  L-aithe.  She  read  through  all  his  protes- 
tations of  cheerfulness  to  the  real  dejection  beneath  them, 
and  was  both  troubled  and  mystified,  raging  at  his 
secretiveness. 

When  she  returned  to  New  York  on  a  day  in  April 
and  found  a  note  from  Mrs.  Lowndes  asking  her  to 
dine  that  evening,  she  accepted  with  a  plan  in  mind. 
Before  she  saw  Ewing  she  would  try  to  learn  something 
about  him  from  Sydenham,  for  Sydenham  would  also 
dine  with  Mrs.  Lowndes,  and  she  knew  that  Ewing 
had  been  painting  with  the  old  man. 

She  found  Birley  the  other  guest,  and  that,  too,  was 
customary.  Birley  and  Sydenham  preserved  for  their 
hostess  a  certain  aroma  of  her  youth.  Both  had  wooed 
her  in  the  long  ago;  Sydenham  in  a  day  when  Long 
Branch  was.  On  its  sands  in  the  light  of  a  July  moon 
she  had  prettily  hoped  they  might  always  be  friends. 
Birley  had  heard  her  intone  the  same  becoming  senti- 
ment at  Saratoga  later  in  the  season.  And  both  rejected 

196 


A  Lady  Blushes 


ones  had  been  present  at  St.  Paul's  on  a  day  in  the 
following  June  when  Kitty  Folsom  and  Jack  Lowndes 
had  consented  together  in  holy  wedlock. 

The  girl's  hope,  perfunctory  enough  at  the  time,  one 
may  fear,  had  seen  long  years  of  fruition.  She  liked 
to  have  them  at  her  table  now.  Only,  when  the  three 
were  alone,  they  remembered  too  vividly  and  became, 
in  the  silences,  too  fantastically  unlike  their  aged  selves 
to  the  misty  eyes  of  one  another.  The  one-time  belle 
found  a  little  of  that  forgetting  and  remembering  to  be 
salutary,  so  little  as  ensued  when  a  fourth  guest  was 
present.  And  Eleanor  Laithe  had  often  been  that 
fourth,  a  saving  reminder  of  the  present,  to  recall 
them  when  they  had  loitered  far  enough  back  into  the 
old  marrying  years. 

But  she  came  this  night  with  a  reason  beyond  her 
wish  to  please.  So  eager  was  she  to  ask  Sydenham 
about  Ewing  that  she  gave  scant  attention  to  the  search- 
ing looks  and  queries  of  Birley  when  she  entered  the 
drawing  room.  The  big  man  rallied  her  on  her  pallor 
and  frailness,  but  with  a  poor  spirit  that  hardly  concealed 
his  real  misgiving.  She  silenced  him  with  impatient 
denials  of  illness,  but  his  eyes  lingered  anxiously  on  her 
face. 

She  sat  at  table  with  but  half  an  ear  for  their  old- 
time  gossip,  the  bantering  gallantries  of  the  aged  swains, 
and  the  outworn  coquetries  of  the  one-time  beauty. 
And  when  they  fell  silent — oftener  now  than  was  their 
wont,  for  each  was  thinking  of  that  other  Kitty  Lowndes, 
who  had  taken  matters  into  her  own  hands — she  forgot 
to  make  talk,  silent  herself  for  thinking  on  the  son  of 
that  Kitty.  The  dinner  lacked  the  sparkle  she  had 
been  expected  to  give  it. 

197 


Swing's  Lady 

As  they  were  about  to  rise,  after  coffee,  she  playfully 
petitioned  for  a  chat  with  Sydenham. 

"  Herbert  wants  to  smoke,  and  I  want  to  sit  here  with 
him.  We  need  a  little  talk  together,"  she  explained. 
And  the  other  two  left  them,  the  old  lady  leaning  on  the 
arm  of  Birley. 

Sydenham  lighted  a  cigar,  pushed  his  chair  back,  and 
faced  the  woman  who  looked  eagerly  at  him  across  the 
disordered  table,  her  arms  along  its  edge,  her  head  tilted 
to  a  questionable  angle.  She  flew  to  her  point. 

"What  about  Gilbert  Ewing — what  trouble  is  he 
having?" 

Sydenham  stared  vacantly.  He  seemed  to  find  it 
necessary  to  translate  the  question  into  some  language 
of  his  own. 

"Trouble?  Oh,  all  sorts — chrome  and  indigo,  yellow 
ocher,  burnt  umber,  rose  madder,  Chinese  white — com- 
position, light  and  shade,  vanishing  points.  You'd 
have  to  be  one  of  us  to  understand." 

"Other  trouble,"  she  insisted  sharply — "personal — 
not  about  his  painting." 

Sydenham  stared  again,  clutching  his  beard  in  a 
dazed  search  for  inspiration.  He  did  not  consider  people 
apart  from  painting.  It  was  impossible  that  anyone 
should  wish  to  discuss  Ewing  except  in  relation  to  colors 
and  canvas. 

"Well,  he  has  trouble  with  everything — composition, 
tone- values,  everything." 

"But  something  not  painting." 

He  looked  up  at  the  ceiling  helplessly. 

"Well,  I  fancy  Randy  Teevan  worries  him." 

"Randall  Teevan!"  She  was  amazed  and  alarmed 
at  once. 

198 


A  Lady  Blushes 


"Sometimes  I  get  the  idea  that  Randy  badgers  him, 
though  they're  thick  as  thieves.  The  boy  wouldn't 
breathe  if  Randy  said  it  was  bad  for  the  lungs." 

"How  long  have  they  been  friends?" 

By  quick,  nervous,  point-blank  queries  she  drew  from 
him  all  that  he  knew  of  this  intimacy.  She  puzzled 
over  it. 

"  Can  he  know?  "  She  had  not  meant  him  to  hear  this, 
but  he  caught  the  words,  and  betrayed  something  like 
human  interest. 

"Trust  Randy  for  that!  I  found  it  out  myself.  He 
had  Kitty's  portrait — Kitty  to  the  life — stunning  brush 
work.  Randy  has  begged  the  picture  of  him  for  a  while. 
I  fancy  he  didn't  want  it  hanging  there  for  others  to  see. 
And  he  found  the  fellow  here  one  afternoon.  Kitty 
told  me.  She  was  nearly  taken  off  her  feet  by  his  story 
but  Randy  happened  in  and  cooled  things  down.  It's 
queer,  Randy's  setting  himself  to  win  over  the  chap. 
It's  a  puzzle-mix.  I  wonder  about  it  sometimes  when 
the  light  goes." 

She  had  listened  in  consternation,  a  rage  for  battle 
rising  in  her.  She  was  sure  Teevan  must  have  some  end 
in  view  hurtful  to  Ewing.  Yet  this  was  cunningly 
hidden.  She  was  still  puzzling  over  this  when  Sydenham 
recalled  her.  He  had  forgotten  Ewing,  and  studied  the 
red  light  that  fell  across  the  table  through  a  shade  of 
silk. 

"What  fools  we  are  to  think  of  painting  shadows! 
If  heaven's  the  place  it's  said  to  be  they'll  have  real 
shadows  put  in  up  tubes,  and  then — well,  think  of  it!" 

She  laughed  at  him,  her  brief  laugh,  with  a  sigh  to 
follow. 

"We  must  go  to  the  others.     But,  Herbert,  you'll 

199 


E wing's  Lady 

watch  him  as  well  as  you  can,  won't  you  ?  I  feel  respons- 
ible for  him  in  a  way." 

He  hesitated,  but  the  light  came.  "Oh,  you  mean 
Ewing?  Of  course  I'll  watch  him.  I  dare  say  he'll 
paint  some  day,  after  a  fashion."  He  fumbled  for  the 
knob  and  awkwardly  opened  the  door  for  her. 

When  the  men  went  Mrs.  Laithe  asked  if  she  might 
not  linger  a  moment. 

"Dear  Aunt  Kitty!"  she  said,  going  to  the  other's 
chair.  "Old  Kitty!"  she  repeated  meaningly.  The 
elder  woman  glanced  quickly  at  her  in  faint  alarm,  half 
questioning,  half  defiant. 

"Oh,  Aunt  Kitty!  I  know — I  know!  and  I  must 
talk  of  him.  I  suspected  something  almost  from  the 
first,  and  then  I  made  sure.  But  I  thought  that  perhaps 
no  one  else  would  find  it  out.  And  he  was  worth  it — 
he  is  worth  it.  I  couldn't  have  left  him  there,  even  if 
I'd  been  sure  that  everyone  would  know.  He  was  a  man 
— he  had  the  right  to  live." 

"  My  child,  my  child !  Oh,  you  didn't  know  what  you 
were  doing!  It  was  a  monstrous  thing,  an  impossible 
thing!" 

"  He's  Kitty's  son.     You  must  feel  for  him." 

"Feel?  What  haven't  I  felt  since  that  day  he  came 
here?"  There  had  been  a  break  in  her  voice,  but  she 
went  quietly  on.  "  I  can't  make  you  know,  dear. 
You've  torn  me — it  will  hurt  to  the  end.  Can  you  under- 
stand that  in  a  terrible,  an  unspeakable  way,  my  Kitty 
is  still  alive,  is  near  me,  and  yet  is  not  to  be  known? 
But  you  can't  understand  it.  You've  never  had  a  child." 

"  Ah !  but  I've  been  one.     I  know  what  he  would  feel." 

"Please,  dear!"  She  put  up  a  hand  in  protest.  "As 
if  I  don't  feel  his  hurt  and  Kitty's  as  well  as  mine.  I 

200 


A  Lady  Blushes 


shall  be  ground  between  the  two  every  day  of  my  life. 
Do  you  think  my  old  arms  didn't  cry  out  to  be  around 
the  mother  in  him  ?  But  think  if  I  had  yielded !  Picture 
his  own  suffering — his  own  shame.  Can  you  see  us  meet- 
ing, our  eyes  falling?  Even  for  his  own  sake,  he  must 
never  know." 

"  Isn't  there  a  way,  Aunt  Kitty?  Some  way?  He's 
worth  finding  a  way  for."  She  leaned  over  to  stroke 
the  other's  hand. 

"No  way,  my  girl.  Be  the  world  a  moment,  be 
cool.  He's  a  nameless  thing.  You  might  know  him, 
but  nothing  more.  Could  he  make  a  life?  Could  a  wo- 
man— come,  face  it  without  prejudice — could  you  see 
your  own  sister  marry  him?"  Mrs.  Laithe  looked  blank. 

"  You  see  how  impossible  it  is.  You,  yourself,  could 
you  stand  before  the  world  with  him?  Could  you  face 
tire  shame?" 

The  younger  woman  dropped  the  hand  she  held  and 
turned  away.  The  elder  regarded  her  shrewdly. 

"There — you  see  how  impossible " 

But  the  other  faced  her  suddenly,  clear-eyed  and 
defiant,  her  head  back. 

"Eleanor!"  It  was  a  cry  of  consternation  that  was 
yet  softened  by  tenderness,  an  amazed  but  compre- 
hending tenderness,  for  the  face  of  the  younger  woman 
was  incarnadined,  flagrantly,  splendidly. 

A  moment  they  held  each  other.  But  there  was  no 
mistaking  the  thing,  for,  though  the  blush  had  quickly 
faded,  an  after  glow  lingered. 

The  older  woman  rose  quickly  to  throw  her  arms  about 
the  other. 

"My  mad,  mad  child!"  She  stood  off  to  search  her 
face  incredulously. 

14  201 


Ewing's  Lady 


"He's  alone,  Aunt  Kitty,  and  he's  so  defenseless. 
He  believes  in  everyone  more  than  in  himself.  He'll 
be  cured  of  that  some  time,  but  just  now  I'm  his  only 
defender.  Others  are  against  him  or  stand  neutral 
with  talk  of  the  'world.'  I  can't  blame  you,  dear,  I 
think  you  must  be  right  for  yourself.  But  when  he 
does  awaken" — she  narrowed  her  eyes  on  the  other  a 
moment  in  calculation — "then  I  shan't  be  ashamed  to 
have  him  know  it  was  always  safe  to  believe  in  me — 
whether  he  was  boy  or  man  or  no  one  at  all — or  less  than 
no  one.  I'd  never  bother  about  names,  dear — I'd 
never  bother  about  names." 

She  smiled  and  drew  the  other  close  with  little  reassur- 
ing caresses.  "  You  see  names  aren't  much — the  directory 
is  full  of  them,  and  dreary  enough  reading  they'd  make. 
No,  I'd  not  care  for  that.  I'd  only  ask  that  he  believe 
in  himself  as  much  as  I  believe  in  him,  and  care  as  little 
for  names.  And  I  warn  you  I  mean  to  help  him  to  that 
if  I  can." 

The  eyes  of  the  other  sparkled  now.  There  was  in 
her  glance  the  excited  admiration  of  a  timid  child  who 
watches  a  reckless  playmate  dare  some  dark  passage 
of  evil  repute  for  goblins. 

"You  mad — dear  mad  girl!"  she  said. 


202 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE   DRAMA   IN   NINTH   STREET 

EWING  knew  that  his  lady  had  come  back.  She 
had  sent  him  a  note  the  first  day:  "I  am  dining 
to-night  with  an  old  friend.  But  come  to-mor- 
row night." 

The  next  day,  while  he  was  saying,  "  To-night  I  shall 
see  her — actually  see  her  .  .  .  "  there  had  come  another 
note  in  her  careless,  scrawled  writing:  "I  find,  after 
all,  that  I  shall  be  engaged  to-night.  Can  you  not  come 
to-morrow  night  instead?  I  am  eager  for  a  talk  with 
you." 

"Could"  he  come!  He  laughed  as  he  put  the  thing 
tenderly  away.  Could  he  come,  indeed !  Could  he  stay 
away? 

But  early  in  the  evening  of  that  same  forbidden  day 
he  walked  to  Ninth  Street,  entering  that  thoroughfare 
furtively.  He  might  not  see  her  for  another  day,  but 
at  least  he  could  look  fondly  at  the  door  by  which  she 
had  entered,  and  gaze  on  the  stanch  house  that  enfolded 
her,  even  on  the  steps  that  must  have  felt  her  light, 
quick  tread,  perhaps  within  the  hour. 

These  things  would  help  him  to  believe  in  her  actuality 
— she  had  so  come  to  seem  but  a  dream  lady  to  him. 

Thrice  he  passed  the  house  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
street.  A  dim  light  glowed  through  the  curtained  win- 
dows. Beyond  them,  he  thought,  she  would  be  talking; 
laughing,  perhaps;  perhaps  even  thinking  of  him  at 

203 


Ewing's  Lady 

that  very  moment  as  she  gazed  absently  at  some  speaker 
who  thought  to  have  her  attention.  If  only  she,  too, 
could  be  counting  the  hours !  But  that  was  too  unlikely. 
He  warned  himself  not  to  imagine  that.  He  recalled 
some  of  Teevan's  speeches  about  women — "Shallow, 
pretty  fools,  for  man's  amusing — the  Oriental  alone, 
my  boy,  has  a  sane  theory  of  women;  creatures  to  be 
kept  as  choice  cabinet  bits — under  lock  and  key." 
Poor  Teevan,  not  to  have  known  the  one  woman  who 
could  have  illumined  his  darkness!  Poor  Teevan,  in- 
deed !  He  idly  wondered  if  his  affair — that  troublesome 
affair  of  which  the  little  man  had  spoken  so  feelingly — 
had  been  "broken  off." 

He  slowly  walked  once  more  past  the  Bartell  house, 
beholding  a  splendid  vision  of  himself  as  he  would  leap 
up  those  steps  the  next  evening.  Then  he  continued 
on  past  Teevan's  house,  regarding  that,  also,  with  great 
kindness.  He  stopped  a  little  beyond  this,  meaning  to 
return.  As  he  did  so  the  door  opened  and  a  woman 
came  out.  He  thought  there  was  something  furtive  in 
her  glance  up  and  down  the  street  as  she  paused  to 
gather  up  her  skirts.  Then  something  familiar  in  the 
feminine  grace  of  that  movement  chained  him.  Surely, 
but  one  person  had  ever  done  the  thing  in  just  that  way. 
There  could  be  no  other.  He  stood  staring  while  she 
came  down  the  steps  and  into  the  light  of  a  street 
lamp.  It  was  Mrs.  Laithe,  walking  briskly  now,  toward 
her  own  home.  He  could  not  mistake  that  free-swinging, 
level,  deliberate  stride,  with  the  head  so  finely  up. 

He  almost  cried  out  to  her  in  his  gladness.  He  felt 
as  a  lost  child  who  wildly  claims  its  own  again  in  some 
crowded  street.  He  walked  back  quickly,  watching  her 
until  her  own  door  swallowed  her  up. 

204 


The  Drama  in  Ninth  Street 

He  felt  a  lively  rejoicing.  The  unpromising  evening 
had  done  well  by  him  after  all.  Thinking  but  to  look 
tenderly  at  a  house  front  he  had  veritably  seen  his  lady — 
watched  her  with  secret,  unrestrained  fondness.  He  had 
an  impulse  to  follow  now  and  demand  her  at  the  door. 
But  he  remembered  in  time ;  she  would  be  engaged  and 
he  would  see  her  soon.  That  long  look  was  adventure 
enough  for  one  night. 

But  he  could  ring  Teevan's  bell.  That  would  be  a 
fine  thing  to  do,  for  Teevan  had  seen  her.  Teevan 
would  speak  of  her,  little  knowing  how  his  words  were 
hungered  for.  He  was  admitted  and  found  the  little 
man  on  the  hearth  rug  in  the  library,  talking  to  himself 
with  great  animation.  He  showed  surprise,  but  his 
welcome  was  warmer  than  usual,  Ewing  thought.  He 
seated  his  guest  and  proffered  him  brandy,  pouring  a 
glass  for  himself  from  a  decanter  almost  empty.  As 
he  drank  he  beamed  shrewdly  on  Ewing — kindly  but 
shrewdly.  "  He  must  have  seen  her — he  must  have  seen 
her  ..."  the  little  man  was  saying.  Then  a  vag- 
rant, elfish  vanity  smote  him.  He  smiled  inscrutably 
on  Ewing — Ewing,  who  had  been  waiting  to  say  lightly, 
"I  happened  to  see  Mrs.  Laithe  leaving  .  .  ."  But 
he  did  not  say  this,  for  the  little  man's  smile  came  to 
life  in  speech. 

"Gad!  my  boy — I'm  deuced  glad  you  came.  You 
can  make  me  forget  a  most  distressing  half  hour  I've 
just  gone  through." 

The  light  in  Ewing's  eyes  changed  perceptibly. 

"  Oh,  these  women ! "  grumbled  Teevan  pleasantly,  with 
the  fine,  humorous  resignation  of  a  persecuted  gallant. 

"Women — women?"  muttered  Ewing,  slightly  aghast. 
Teevan's  heart  beat  blithely  within  his  breast. 

205 


Ewing's  Lady 


"Silly,  romantic  fools!  What  do  they  see  in  a  man 
of  my  years?"  He  flourished  a  gesture  of  magnificent 
deprecation.  "  I  think  I  once  mentioned  a  very  irk- 
some affair — "  How  he  blessed,  now,  that  bit  of  boast- 
ing, vague  and  aimless  at  the  time !  "  The  lady,  I  blush 
to  say  it,  becomes  exigent.  But  I'm  rightly  served. 
Heaven  knows  I've  seen  enough  of  that  sort  of  thing  to 
know  how  it  ends.  But  come" — he  rose  to  a  livelier 
manner — "  I  shouldn't  bore  you  with  a  matter  I'm  half 
ashamed  of,  man  of  the  world  as  I  am.  You'll  sound  the 
ennui  of  it,  all  in  your  own  good  time,  when  you've  lost 
a  few  of  those  precious  illusions."  He  broke  off  to 
ring,  and  directed  the  man  to  replenish  the  decanter. 

Ewing  gazed  stupidly  at  him,  failing  of  speech.  The 
little  man  drank  again  when  the  brandy  came,  and 
Ewing  wondered  if  he  could  be  drunk.  He  feared  not. 
The  men  he  had  known  in  the  hills  were  noisy  in  drink — 
they  chiefly  yelled.  And  Teevan  was  quiet.  If  his  eyes 
stared  vacantly  at  intervals,  if  he  clipped  syllables  from 
his  words,  and  seemed  to  attack  his  speech  with  extreme 
caution,  those  might  be  only  the  results  of  his  emotion. 
But  what  monstrous  stuff  was  this  he  uttered!  What 
unbelievable  stuff !  In  a  fever  of  apprehension  he  won- 
dered what  Teevan  would  say  next. 

But  the  little  man  dismissed  woman,  dismissed  her 
with  an  exquisite  shrug,  to  speak  of  his  young  friend's 
work,  and  of  painting  at  large. 

"A  suggestion  of  the  true  manner  in  that  late  thing 
of  yours,  my  boy,  really,  a  hint  of  Dupre",  and  he  was  a 
colorist  of  the  first  rank.  And  there  are  fewer  colorists, 
genuine  masters  of  tone,  than  you'd  think.  Turner 
was  one,  to  be  sure,  but  Millet  had  a  restricted  sense 
of  color.  Corot  was  great  only  within  a  narrow  range. 

206 


The  Drama  in  Ninth  Street 

Rousseau  was  only  a  bit  broader,  robuster.  There's 
a  wretchedly  defective  color  sense  in  many  of  the  old 
masters,  and  in  heaven  knows  how  many  of  the  young 
ones.  France  must  take  the  blame  for  that,  I'm  sure 
you'd  agree  with  me.  The  academic  sentiment  there 
runs  to  form  and  against  color.  They  insist  thatcolor- 
ists  do  little  work.  It's  not  an  unplausible  sophism. 
One  has  only  to  begin  counting  to  see  that — counting 
the  host  of  little  niggling,  mechanical  stipplers  it's 
responsible  for.  It's  true,  color  has  its  pitfalls  and  its 
gins.  There's  a  temptation  to  shirk  form.  Many 
an  aspiring  colorist  has  become  at  last  a  mushy  manner- 
ist, as  vicious  in  his  influence  as  the  chaps  who  never 
get  beyond  smart  drawing  and  clever  grouping."  The 
little  man  was  "squeezing"  his  eyes  now  as  if  he 
judged  a  row  of  paintings.  He  talked  on  and  drank 
frequently. 

But  Ewing  left  as  soon  as  he  could  do  so.  Teevan 
pressed  his  hand  with  rare  cordiality  at  parting,  as  if 
Ewing  were  one  person  in  the  world  still  worthy  of  belief. 
He  wandered  blindly  home,  awkwardly  trying  to  mold 
this  new  chaos  into  an  understandable  scheme  of  things. 
He  fell  instinctively  back  on  his  studies  of  the  drama. 

Many  nights  he  had  sat  before  the  painted  curtain 
to  feast  a  questing  mind  on  the  life  it  lifted  to  reveal. 
He  had  found  its  revelations  more  intimate,  more 
specific,  than  those  of  the  life  outside,  and  he  had  seemed 
to  learn  many  things.  Lacking  this  study  he  would 
not  have  divined  that  actual  men  and  women  might 
be  leading  lives  of  domestic  adventure,  of  romantic 
vicissitude,  of  sinister  intrigue,  lives  crowded  with 
love  and  hate  and  fear  and  a  thousand  lawless  com- 
plexities. 

207 


Ewing's  Lady 

He  had  studied  the  street  crowds  in  the  light  thus 
thrown  on  their  inner  motives.  It  had  been  a  fine 
thing  to  detect  the  plotting  scoundrel  under  the  placid, 
dissembling  mask  of  some  fellow  who  bought  an  evening 
paper  and  boarded  a  street  car  with  elaborate  airs  of 
innocence;  to  probe  the  secret  of  the  unhappy  wife 
whose  white  face  stared  blankly  from  a  passing  brou- 
gham ;  to  identify  the  handsome  but  never  culpable  hero, 
unconscious  of  third-act  toils  tightening  about  him; 
to  know  the  persecuted  heroine,  or  the  manly  but 
comic  chap  who  loved  her  with  exquisite  restraint, 
divining  that  she  could  never  be  his. 

But,  though  he  had  stripped  the  masks  from  these 
mummers  in  the  street  crowds,  and  read  their  secrets 
of  guilt  or  innocence,  he  had  not  supposed  that  the 
people  he  actually  knew  could  be  leading  lives  com- 
plicated in  that  way.  And  if  Teevan  had  talked,  then 
Teevan  must  have  been  drunk.  He  would  see  her 
to-morrow  night,  and  she  would  speak  casually  of  her 
call  at  Teevan's  upon  some  trifling  errand. 

Yet,  when  night  came  again  and  he  stood  in  her 
presence,  the  first  devouring  look  at  her  shocked  him 
momentarily  out  of  all  thought  of  Teevan's  maunder- 
ings.  She  was  drooping  and  wasted  and  flatly  pale. 
He  scarcely  knew  her  face,  with  the  eyes  burning  at 
him  from  black  rings.  He  took  her  hand,  nursing  it 
gently,  standing  helpless  and  hurt  before  her. 

"You  are  so  changed,"  he  said  fearfully,  "so  changed! 
Oh,  you  are  so  changed!" 

But  she  laughed  with  her  familiar  gayety,  tossing 
her  head  in  denial.  He  still  scanned  her  face.  Some 
resemblance  there,  some  sinister  memory  of  her  look 
on  another  face,  was  stirring  him.  He  could  almost 

208 


The  Drama  in  Ninth  Street 

remember  what  it  meant.  At  last  her  eyes  fell  before 
his  and  she  drew  her  hand  quickly  away. 

"Really,  I  won't  have  any  talk  of  myself.  I  hear 
too  much  of  that.  I'm  a  bit  run  down,  that's  all.  We 
found  Florida  enervating.  Even  dad  was  affected 
by  it  and  forgot  his  philosophy.  So,  an  end  to  that. 
I  must  hear  of  you,  of  your  work." 

She  sat  down,  drawing  a  white  scarf  about  her  shoul- 
ders, and  leaning  toward  him  in  the  old  inviting  way. 

"Tell  me  what  you  have  done — everything  there  is 
to  tell  about  it." 

All  at  once  he  remembered. 

"Last  night,"  he  began  uneasily — "I  wanted  to  see 
you  last  night — " 

"You  couldn't  have  seen  me  last  night."  She  smiled 
in  a  way  that  brought  out  all  the  weak,  wasted  look 
of  her  face.  "I  was  busy — I  was  trying  to  adjust 
something  that  has  troubled  me  more  than  I  can  tell 
you." 

He  stared  at  her,  incredulous,  believing  he  could  not 
have  heard. 

".  .  .  an  affair  that  has  worried  me,"  she  repeated, 
noticing  his  blank  look. 

Stupefied  as  he  was,  he  felt  a  great  pity  rush  over 
him,  an  instant  longing  to  be  her  knight  and  give  battle 
for  her — to  be  her  squire,  if  she  herself  must  be  knight. 
Yet,  if  Teevan  had  spoken  truly  must  it  not  be  a  thing 
in  which  he  was  powerless  to  help  her  ever  so  little? 
A  sudden  sickness  of  rage  came  over  him  at  thought  of 
Teevan.  He  had  almost  made  a  jest  of  her. 

He  could  not  talk  of  himself  after  that.  She  could 
get  nothing  from  him  of  his  own  worries,  though  she 
could  see  that  he  had  these  in  abundance.  At  last  she 

209 


Swing's  Lady 


tired  of  striving  against  him  and  let  him  go,  out  of  sheer 
longing  for  the  touch  of  his  hand  at  parting.  He  had 
regarded  her  with  a  moody,  almost  savage  tenderness 
that  made  her  weak. 

As  he  walked  home  he  felt  new  to  the  streets  again. 
They  were  strange  streets  in  a  strange  world.  But 
one  thing  he  was  sure  of;  one  thing  stood  clearly  out 
of  the  puzzle :  he  must  not  intrude,  must  not  bother  her ; 
must  not  see  her  often.  In  a  drama  so  alien  to  him 
he  could  not  act  without  direction.  He  knew  his  own 
longing  too  well  to  trust  himself.  He  sat  a  long  time 
with  his  arms  clasped  across  his  breast.  The  anguish 
in  it  seemed  physical;  it  was  as  if  a  beast  were  devouring 
his  heart. 


2IO 


CHAPTER  XXII 

A   REVOI/T 

HE  turned  furiously  to  his  work,  but,  as  the  sum- 
mer came  on,  he  realized  that  he  was  working 
with  a  desperation  entirely  heartless.  He 
was  not  only  sure,  now,  that  he  had  taken  a  wrong 
road,  but  that  nameless  distress  of  his  lady  had  left 
his  desire  benumbed.  A  fountain  had  gone  dry  in  him. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  warm  days  he  went  into  the 
country  on  sketching  trips  with  Sydenham.  To  vales 
and  little  rivers  north  of  the  city,  to  flat,  green  stretches 
on  Long  Island,  to  the  Jersey  hills,  they  had  gone  with 
sketch  traps  wherever  trolley  or  steam  car  could  find 
Nature  quickly  for  them. 

Ewing  had  looked  forward  to  this.  He  had  felt 
hampered  in  the  studio,  where  he  must  pass  whole 
days  in  futile  messing  with  colors,  in  rash  trials  of  this 
or  that  trick  of  tint,  like  an  idling  schoolboy  playing 
with  slate  and  pencil.  Once  in  the  open,  he  had  felt, 
there  would  quickly  show  forth  those  gifts  which 
Teevan  was  certain  he  possessed. 

But  day  by  day  these  excursions  with  the  old  painter 
had  brought  him  to  believe  that  he  had  lost  his  way. 
That  trick  of  color  was  not  to  be  learned,  it  was  clear, 
by  rough-and-ready  advances.  Teevan,  who  was  ever 
watchful  of  him,  who  betrayed,  indeed,  a  strange  little 
jealousy  of  any  other  influence  than  his  own,  scanned 
his  first  studies  eagerly,  and  turned  an  inscrutable  face 

211 


Ewing's  Lady 

on  his  young  friend.  He  did  not  praise  loosely;  he  did 
not  condemn  outright.  And  he  talked  not  too  specific- 
ally of  the  canvases  before  him.  He  showed  little 
consciousness  of  a  change  in  the  demeanor  of  his  dis- 
ciple, though  Ewing's  eye  rested  on  him  with  a  long, 
unaccountable  regard.  Perhaps  the  boy  was  turning  a 
little  sullen.  This  amused  him.  Meanwhile,  the  youth 
stood  aghast  before  the  dreadful  thing  he  saw  in  his 
heart.  Hatred  of  a  benefactor!  All  the  good  in  him 
struggled  against  it;  all  his  gratitude  pleaded  with  him 
to  be  fair  to  the  friend  he  had  revered  so  long.  Teevan 
talked  more  of  Corot  or  Constable,  Diaz  or  Millet  than 
he  talked  of  Ewing;  and  the  young  man  came  at  last 
to  the  amazing  conclusion  not  only  that  he  was  on  a 
wrong  road,  but  that  Teevan  knew  it — that  the  little 
man  must  long  have  known  it.  This  put  him  again 
in  that  rage  of  impotence  that  had  seized  him  in  those 
last  days  at  the  League.  But  he  bore  it  longer  now. 
He  felt  there  was  something  final  about  this. 

There  were  long  days  in  the  open  to  think  on  it, 
weigh  it,  and  wring  the  meaning  from  it.  Sydenham 
placidly  criticised  his  work;  but  Sydenham  could  not 
feel  his  tragedy  of  defeat.  A  man  who,  at  seventy, 
suffered  his  own  despairs  with  the  poignant  ecstasy 
of  youth,  could  not  take  a  boy's  failings  seriously. 
Ewing  now  saw,  moreover — for  he  was  beginning  to 
use  another  pair  of  eyes  than  Teevan's — that  Sydenham 
himself  was  a  hopeless  mannerist,  a  color-mad  volup- 
tuary, painting  always  subjectively,  refusing  all  but 
the  merest  hints  from  his  subject. 

His  last  day  of  confessed  futility,  his  last  hour  of 
inner  rebellion,  came  early  in  June.  He  carried  his 
sketch  trap  out  that  day,  but  did  not  unpack  it.  He 

212 


A  Revolt 

lay,  instead,  pondering,  resolving,  raging,  while  Syden- 
ham,  a  little  distance  off,  delicately  corrected  the  errors 
of  Nature  in  a  vista  of  meadow.  Ewing  chewed  the 
juicy  ends  of  long-stemmed  grasses  and  made  phrases 
of  disparagement  for  this  sketch  of  Sydenham's,  pictur- 
ing himself  with  the  courage  to  utter  them.  He  told 
himself  frankly  what  he  thought  of  the  old  man's  work 
— his  "brush  doddering,"  he  nerved  himself  to  call  it. 

Immensely  refreshed  by  this  exercise  in  brutality, 
he  rolled  over  on  his  grassy  bed  to  follow  the  shade  of 
the  oak  under  which  he  lay,  and  dramatized  a  meeting 
with  Teevan,  in  which  the  little  man  strangely  listened 
more  than  he  spoke.  He  uttered  his  mind  again  con- 
cerning the  work  of  Sydenham,  the  master  Teevan  had 
prescribed,  asserting  that  unsuspecting  toiler  to  be 
hopelessly  "locoed"  in  the  matter  of  color.  He  saw 
Teevan's  fine  brows  go  elegantly  up  at  this  term,  and 
he  explained  it  to  him  with  a  humble  sort  of  boldness. 

From  this  he  warmed  to  sheer  audacity,  disclosing 
further  to  his  imagined  hearer  that  the  time  had  come 
for  him  to  go  his  own  way — still  grateful  for  advice, 
still  yearning  for  that  friendly  intimacy,  but  determined 
to  be  done  with  dreams.  He  saw  Teevan  applauding 
this  mild  declaration  of  revolt,  with  his  fine,  dark  little 
smile,  and  a  courteous  inclination  of  the  head,  and  he 
thereupon  amplified  it.  He  must  go  back  to  himself 
and  stay  there  stubbornly,  wheresoever  that  self  led 
him.  Millet  might  have  had  a  restricted  sense  of 
color,  Corot  might  have  had  his  faults,  and  Rousseau 
have  been  less  than  Teevan  could  have  wished  him; 
but  these  were  dead  men.  And  Ewing  was  alive, 
determined  to  do  those  things  that  permitted  him  to 
feel  the  little  power  he  might  have.  He  was  through 

213 


Ewing's  Lady 

with  efforts  that  brought  him  nothing  but  a  sense  of  the 
folly  of  all  effort.  And  it  was  to  this  conviction,  he 
made  it  plain,  that  his  amazed  but  still  respectful 
listener  had  led  him.  He  worked  himself  into  a  glow 
of  defiant  self-assertion,  feeling  his  own  respect,  and 
Teevan's  as  well,  mounting  with  his  heat. 

When  the  light  faded  he  strolled  over  to  look  at 
Sydenham's  sketch,  bent  on  testing  his  self-inspired 
temerity. 

"I  wonder  if  you've  gotten  that  sky?"  he  began 
judicially,  as  the  old  man  invited  his  comment.  Syden- 
ham  looked  up  in  some  surprise,  but  Ewing's  eyes  were 
still  on  the  sketch. 

"Too  gray  above,  isn't  it?  I  thought  the  gray  was 
only  down  near  the  horizon.  By  the  way,  I  wish  I'd 
roughed  in  that  cow  for  you.  A  cow  isn't  the  easiest 
thing  in  the  world  to  draw.  They  look  easy,  but  they're 
not.  That  bit  of  stone  wall  isn't  bad,  and  your  clover 
effect  is  first  rate."  He  paused.  He  had  meant  only 
to  practice  speaking  his  own  mind  against  the  next 
interview  with  Teevan.  He  did  not  want  to  hurt 
Sydenham.  The  latter  was  roping  his  stool  and  easel 
together.  He  had  been  a  little  amazed  at  his  pupil's 
outburst,  but  he  looked  up  with  a  smile  entirely  placid. 

"That's  the  way  they  all  say  it.  You've  caught  the 
trick  of  art  criticism,  my  boy,  if  you've  caught  nothing 
else." 

Ewing  saw  that  he  was  laughed  at.  There  was  a 
cool  little  flash  to  his  retort. 

"  I  can  make  that  into  a  real  cow  for  you,  if  you  like, 
after  we  get  home." 

But  the  old  man  only  chuckled  at  him,  making  him 
regret  that  he  had  ever  so  little  curbed  his  criticism. 

214 


A  Revolt 

He  had  an  impulse  to  fight,  a  craving  to  arouse  resist- 
ance. But  he  saw  that  Sydenham  was  no  target  for 
him,  save  in  a  sort  of  subcaliber  practice.  He  hoped 
this  novel  combativeness  would  not  wither  under  the 
first  glance  of  Teevan's  sharp  little  eyes. 

It  was  dusk  when  they  reached  the  city,  and  Ewing 
went  to  the  Monastery  to  dine.  He  had  long  shunned 
the  place,  for  the  men  there  talked  of  things  they  had 
done  or  were  doing,  and  they  had  made  him,  without 
meaning  to,  feel  "out  of  it,"  as  he  told  himself.  For 
he,  if  he  talked,  could  tell  only  of  wonders  he  meant  to 
do,  and,  lacking  an  audience  composed  of  Teevans, 
he  was  shrewd  enough  to  see  that  these  would  sound  too 
wonderful  and  the  future  too  distantly  vague. 

He  had  always  been  glad,  however,  of  his  drawing 
on  the  east  wall.  They  could  not  believe  him  wholly 
lacking  after  that,  nor  refuse  him  fellowship  if  he  sought 
it.  He  avoided  the  crowd  when  he  entered  the  room — 
the  men  he  knew  best  were  at  a  long  table  on  the  rear 
veranda  just  outside  the  open  windows — and  chose  a 
small  table  opposite  his  drawing.  He  had  thought  of 
it  often  during  the  afternoon  while  he  harangued 
Teevan  in  imagination.  It  had  occurred  to  him  that 
this  was  the  only  thing  he  had  really  done  since  coming 
to  New  York,  and  he  had  been  seized  with  a  longing 
to  look  at  it  again,  to  prove  to  his  own  eyes  that  the 
thing  which  was  really  his  own — not  Corot's  nor  Millet's 
nor  even  Sydenham's — was  not  an  inconsiderable  thing, 
not  a  thing  he  need  despair  of  building  on. 

As  he  ate,  his  eyes  eagerly  retraced  the  lines.  After 
the  soup  he  had  to  look  down  to  his  plate  to  know  if 
his  fork  brought  him  fish  or  flesh.  The  sketch  delighted 
him.  He  was  surprised  that  he  had  been  able  to  do  it. 

215 


Ewing's  Lady 

He  began  to  doubt  his  present  mastery  of  the  tech- 
nique it  displayed,  fearing  he  had  wandered  too  long  in 
the  Tee  van-prescribed  maze,  dawdled  too  long  in  the 
little  man's  palace  of  illusions.  One  thing  he  knew: 
he  would  not  dare  mount  a  table  and  try  another  such 
drawing  before  them  all.  He  had  done  this  one  as 
unthinkingly  as  he  would  have  saddled  a  horse  or 
sighted  a  rifle,  indifferent  to  observers.  It  rushed 
upon  him  sickeningly  that  all  his  association  with  Teevan 
had  tended  to  destroy  his  belief  in  himself.  The  coffee 
found  him  afraid — ragingly  afraid. 

The  voices  from  the  group  outside  came  to  him 
murmurously,  and  at  intervals  he  would  listen  to  the 
careless,  bantering  talk.  One  voice  related  that  its 
wielder  had  smoked  opium  in  Cairo.  He  heard  cries 
of  mock  horror,  and  the  drawl  of  Chalmers — "Cairo — 
that's  where  the  'streets'  come  from."  Griggs  was 
presently  extolling  some  ancient  and  wonderful  sherry. 
"Great  stuff!  You  take  a  sip  and  you  don't  swallow 
it — it  just  floats  off  through  your  being  like  a  golden 
mist.  He  only  has  about  a  dozen  bottles — out  of  a  lot 
that  was  put  down  for  Napoleon  or  somebody  in  1830." 
Baldwin's  voice  floated  in:  "All  right,  old  man,  but 
they  had  to  put  it  down  a  long  way  to  reach  Napoleon  in 
1830." 

There  was  a  laugh  at  this,  and  it  came  to  the  lone 
listener  as  the  care-free  echo  of  a  world  he  had  tried  for 
and  lost.  Lost  thus  far — but  there  was  farther  to  go, 
other  days  to  live,  other  wise  men  to  counsel  with.  He 
could  have  believed  it  heartily,  if  it  were  not  for  that 
thought  of  Mrs.  Laithe,  the  thought  that  was  always 
like  a  beast  devouring  his  heart.  Meantime,  if  he  could 
only  have  a  breathing  spell,  some  days  of  quiet.  He 

216 


A  Revolt 

wished  his  own  hills  were  not  so  far  away.  He  was  sure 
that  a  little  time  back  in  the  cabin  studio  would  give 
him  his  old  bearings. 

His  thought  ran  to  Mrs.  Laithe's  brother,  who  had 
come  to  town  the  week  before,  bronzed  and  bearded  and 
violent  with  enthusiasm  for  his  Western  life.  He 
decided  that  a  talk  with  Bartell  would  be  tonic  to  his 
mood;  the  bare  mention  of  familiar  names  and  places 
would  hearten  him — of  the  Wimmenuche  and  Bar-y, 
Old  Baldy  and  Dry  Fork.  And  perhaps  he  had  seen 
Ben  lately;  the  two  might  even  have  driven  down  to 
Pagosa  together. 

And  it  would  be  an  excuse  for  seeing  her.  For  two 
months  he  had  sought  her  only  thus,  with  something 
he  could  hold  in  his  mind  as  an  excuse,  for  he  was 
abashed  by  that  nameless  thing  that  troubled  her,  and 
troubled,  as  well,  the  little  man  who  had  meant  so 
much  to  him — for  Teevan,  when  the  brandy  was  low, 
continued  to  speak  of  women. 

He  walked  quickly  round  to  the  house  in  Ninth  Street, 
where  he  asked  for  Bartell.  But  only  Mrs.  Laithe  was 
at  home.  This  embarrassed  him,  great  as  was  his 
solicitude  for  her.  She  had  sought  his  confidence  more 
than  once  of  late,  but  he  could  not  tell  her  of  doubts  only 
half  defined,  of  fears  vague  to  absurdity,  of  anxieties 
that  might  well  be  baseless.  He  thought  that  now  he 
could  have  talked,  finding  her  alone,  but  for  once  she 
seemed  rather  curiously  preoccupied.  They  sat  together 
in  the  library  with  only  a  half  light,  the  two  windows 
opened  for  random  breezes.  Suddenly,  as  her  face  was 
toward  him,  dim  though  the  light  was,  he  caught  the 
look  that  had  troubled  him  so  hauntingly  in  the  spring. 
He  knew  that  look  now ;  it  was  the  look  he  had  seen  on 
15  217 


Ewing's  Lady 


his  father's  face  in  the  last  year  of  his  life — the  look  of 
a  spirit  divesting  itself  of  the  flesh. 

"  You  are  ill,"  he  said,  trying  to  speak  lightly  under 
his  sudden  alarm.  "  Let  me  have  a  better  look  at  you." 
He  turned  the  light  to  a  full  blaze.  Her  wonted  paleness 
was  warmed  to  a  sinister  flush  about  the  eyes  and  the 
upper  face,  and,  though  her  eyes  flashed  bravely  at  him 
in  denial,  the  bones  were  sharp  above  her  hollowed 
cheeks,  and  her  once  rounded  chin  had  become  lean. 
She  shivered  as  she  spoke. 

"I'm  a  little  exhausted  by  the  heat;  nothing  more. 
Lower  the  light,  please.  I  don't  care  to  be  studied  just 
now." 

"But  I  know  you're  not  well.  You  ought  to  go  off 
some  place.  Get  out  to  pasture  at  once.  You've  been 
'over-packed,'  kept  too  long  on  the  trail." 

"You,  too?     They  all  say  it.     It's  so  easy  to  say." 

"And  easy  to  do." 

"  It's  hard  to  do,  and  yet  I'm  afraid  I  must.  I've  felt 
that  I  ought  to  be  here  with  my  charges — you  have  been 
one  of  them."  She  brightened  with  a  sudden  inspiration. 
"You  need  rest  yourself.  Your  face  shows  it.  You've 
been  depressed  a  long  time,  you  are  worried  now. 
Let  us  both  rest.  My  aunt  up  at  Kensington  has  wanted 
me  there — the  aunt  my  sister  is  with.  She'd  be  glad 
to  have  you  as  well.  It's  a  big  house  and  she  likes 
young  people.  There!  Will  you  go  with  me?" 

She  rose,  waiting,  electrified,  for  his  answer.  Instantly 
he  felt  that  he  wished  this  above  all  things.  There  he 
could  find  himself,  fortify  his  soul  for  any  number  of 
Teevans — perhaps  fortify  her  own. 

"  I'll  go,"  he  answered  heartily.  "  It  will  be  good  for 
us  both." 

218 


A  Revolt 

She  fell  into  her  chair  with  a  long  "  Ah ! "  then  she  gave 
the  purring  little  laugh,  like  that  of  a  child  made  happy. 
"We  shall  go  for  two  blessed  weeks  and  forget  this 
place  with  its  wretched  tangles." 

"  I'm  your  man!"  he  said,  rising  and  taking  her  hand 
with  his  old  boyish  enthusiasm.  "Can  we  start  early?" 

She  kept  her  hand  in  his  while  she  laughed  again. 
"The  train  goes  from  the  Grand  Central  at  one.  I'll 
wire  Aunt  Joyce." 

Outside  Ewing  met  Bartell,  but  he  did  not  talk  of  the 
San  Juan. 

"You  must  see  to  your  sister,"  he  said.  "She  looks 
the  way  my  father  did.  You  ought  to  get  her  out  of 
here.  She's  going  off  for  two  weeks,  but  that  won't  set 
her  right.  Go  look  at  her!" 

Bartell  found  his  sister  where  Ewing  had  left  her. 

"Well,  Nell,  how  is  it  now?    What  did  Birley  say?" 

She  stirred  impatiently  in  her  chair.  "  He  wouldn't 
commit  himself.  He  told  me  to  rest  away  from  here 
for  two  weeks  and  then  come  back  to  see  a  specialist  he'd 
send  me  to,  a  man  who  knows — such  things." 

"  I  just  met  Ewing — he  spoke  of  how  badly  you  look. 
I'm  worried,  Nell.  You're  not  going  to  be  left  here." 

"  I  must  tell  you  something,  dear — oh,  a  ghastly 
joke,  if  ever  there  was  one :  You  know  that  one  death 
trap  of  a  tenement  I've  had  so  much  trouble  with " 

"Where  all  those  consumptives  were?    Yes." 

"They've  died  there  like  sheep.  I  had  it  inspected — 
I  wanted  to  have  the  owner  compelled  to  build  it  over 
or  something,  but  we  always  found  that  the  law  had  been 
cunningly  met  with — not  the  spirit  of  it,  but  the  letter. 
The  airshafts  and  drains  were  bad  enough  to  kill,  but 
not  bad  enough  to  hurt  the  owner.  Yesterday  I  deter- 

219 


Ewing's  Lady 

mined  to  find  out  who  the  owner  was,  to  make  a  personal 
appeal.  I  was  willing  to  buy  the  place  myself." 

She  stopped  in  a  fit  of  coughing,  a  dry,  hard,  tearing 
cough  that  left  her  exhausted. 

"Well,  Sis?" 

"I  went  to  the  agents — this  will  make  you  cry  or 
laugh ;  I  did  both — and  I  found  they  were  my  agents — 
the  house  was  my  house." 

"Poor  Sis!" 

"One  of  those  Dick  left — mine,  you  understand. 
I've  been  spending  the  blood  of  those  people,  eating, 
wearing,  amusing  myself  with  it." 

"Yes,  and  going  down  there  to  get  caught  in  the 
same  trap.  I  don't  see  anything  funny  about  that." 

"Alden  Teevan  would.  I  must  tell  him  of  it — my 
own  dungeon  closing  in  on  me." 

"Nonsense!  You're  morbid,  girl.  Tenements  have 
got  to  be  dirty.  Trinity  Church  itself  has  a  fine  bunch 
of  the  worst  kind." 

"I'm  not  a  church,  dear.  This  tenement  is  coming 
down.  I  gave  orders  to-day." 

"  Well,  you  stay  away  from  it.  You're  in  bad  shape, 
my  girl." 

"Two  weeks  at  Kensington  will  put  me  right." 

"Two  weeks  nothing!  See  here,  if  you  act  up,  I'll 
rope  you  and  hustle  you  out  to  the  ranch  and  close  herd 
you  there  for  about  six  months." 

She  smiled  weakly  at  him. 

"  I  shall  be  all  right,  dear — but  you  can  help  me  up- 
stairs now." 

"Too  tired  for  a  roof  garden?" 

"I'm  afraid  so." 

"Or  a  broiled  lobster?" 

220 


A  Revolt 

"Not  to-night,  dear." 

He  helped  her  up  the  stairs,  alternately  scolding  her 
for  her  weakness  and  protesting  that  broiled  lobsters 
were  all  that  kept  him  from  forgetting  the  existence  of 
Manhattan. 


221 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

THE   LITTLE   LAND 

EWING  found  Kensington  like  a  village  dropped 
from  the  clouds  of  stageland,  its  wide,  grass- 
bordered  streets  arched  with  giant  elms  and 
flanked  by  square  old  houses,  drowsing  behind  their 
flower  gardens  and  green  lawns.  The  house  to  which 
he  went  was  equally  a  stage  house.  Only  in  that  land  of 
pretense  had  he  seen  its  like :  a  big,  square,  gray  house, 
its  drab  slate  roof  and  red  chimneys  all  but  hidden  by 
the  elms  that  towered  above  it  like  mammoth  feather 
dusters,  its  wide  piazzas  screened  from  the  street  by  a 
hoary  hedge  of  lilac.  The  house  seemed  to  drowse  in 
a  comfortable  lethargy,  confident  of  the  rectitude  of 
builders  long  dead  who  had  roughhewn  its  beams  and 
joined  them  with  wooden  pins  before  a  day  of  nails. 
In  Ewing's  own  room,  far  up  between  the  hunched  shoul- 
ders of  the  house,  the  windows  gave  closely  on  one  of  the 
elms,  so  that  he  could  hear  its  whispers  night  and  morn- 
ing from  his  canopied  bed  of  four  posts.  The  other 
rooms  were  broad  and  low  of  ceiling,  and  there  were 
long,  high-backed  sofas,  slim-legged  chairs,  and  tables 
of  mahogany  or  rosewood,  desks,  cabinets,  and  high- 
boys of  an  outlandish  grace,  that  charmed  with  hints  of 
a  mellowed  past — of  past  overlaying  past  in  sleeping 
strata. 

The  woman  whose  house  this  was  seemed  to  Ewing 
to  be  its  true  spirit.     She,  too,  drowsed  anciently,  a 

222 


The  Little  Land 


thing  of  old  lace  and  lavender,  yet  of  a  certain  gentle 
and  antique  sprightliness,  of  cheeks  preserving  a  hint  of 
time-worn  pink,  mellowed  like  the  scrap  of  her  flowered 
wedding  dress  shut  between  the  leaves  of  an  "Annual" 
half  a  century  old. 

And  Ewing  found  in  the  house,  too,  the  girl  who  had 
once  talked  half  an  hour  with  him  by  an  exigent  tea 
table.  She  had  been  a  thing  of  shy  restraint  then, 
showing  with  an  almost  old-fashioned  simplicity  against 
her  background  of  townish  sophistication.  Now  he 
found  her  demurely  modern  in  this  huddle  of  mellowed 
relics.  She  it  was  who  interpreted  for  him  the  antique 
mysteries  of  house  and  town.  She  paraded  before  him 
the  treasures  of  her  aunt,  from  the  pewter  plates  and 
silver-gilt  candelabra  to  camphor-scented  brocades  long 
hidden  in  cedar  chests  in  the  ghostly  attic.  But  she 
performed  her  office  with  irreverence;  as  when,  in  the 
attic's  gloom,  she  held  the  festal  gown  of  some  departed 
great-grandmother  before  her  own  robust  figure  to  show 
how  tiny  were  grandmothers  in  those  days,  for  the  yoke 
but  a  little  more  than  half  spanned  her  breadth  as  she 
smirked  above  it  in  scorn  of  its  narrowness. 

In  that  subdued  light  the  girl's  skin  was  flawless, 
her  eyes  were  shaded  to  murkiness,  and  a  mote-ridden 
shaft  of  sunlight  struck  her  hair  to  a  radiant  yellow. 
But  out  of  doors  these  matters  could  be  seen  to  another 
effect.  The  hair  was  only  a  yellowish  brown,  the  eyes 
lost  their  shadows  and  became  the  lucid  green  of  sea 
waves,  and  the  face  was  spotted  with  tiny  freckles,  like 
a  bird's  egg.  He  liked  her  best  out  of  doors,  breathing 
as  she  did  of  wood  and  field  and  sky.  Skirts  she  seemed 
to  wear  under  protest,  as  a  wood  nymph  might  humor, 
a  little  awkwardly,  the  prejudice  of  an  indoor  tribe  with 

223 


Ewing's  Lady 

which  she  chose  to  tarry.  When  she  raced  over  the 
lawn  with  her  dog,  it  was  not  hard  to  see  that  clothing 
was  an  ungraceful  impediment,  even  the  short-skirted 
gowns  she  wore  by  day.  In  the  longer  affairs  of  evening, 
though  she  strove  to  subdue  her  spirits  to  them,  she  still 
had  an  air  of  the  open,  as  if  she  but  played  at  being  a 
lady  and  might  forget  at  any  moment.  Ewing  was  shyer 
of  her  when  evening  brought  this  change  of  habit.  At 
such  times  he  found  it  easier  to  talk  to  Mrs.  Laithe,  who 
sat — or,  oftener,  lay — with  her  eyes  turned  from  the 
light,  speaking  but  little. 

"I'm  glad  to  be  away  from  town,"  she  said  to  him, 
as  he  sat  a  moment  beside  her  one  day,  "and  I'm  glad 
you're  away.  I  need  to  be  quiet,  and  you  shall  do  as  you 
like.  Virginia  will  go  about  with  you  and  make  you  gay. 
Virginia  always  makes  us  gay." 

Unconsciously  her  hand  had  fallen  on  his  sleeve, 
curling  and  fastening  there,  and  when  he  rose  he  was 
disturbed  to  see  that  he  had  shaken  off  so  tender  a  thing. 

"I  didn't  know  you  were  holding  me,"  he  said,  in 
apology,  and  lifted  the  fallen  hand. 

"Such  foolish  hands!  Your  sister's  are  tiny,  too, 
but  they  look  as  if  they  could  turn  a  doorknob."  He 
leisurely  turned  it  this  way  and  that  to  see  its  lines,  and 
compared  the  fingernails  with  his  own  to  show  how 
absurd  they  were.  And  all  the  time  it  seemed  to  the 
woman  that  her  hand  had  a  little  heart  in  it  that  was 
beating  to  suffocation. 

"  There,  Virginia  is  beckoning  to  you  from  the  path — 
perhaps  you  can  finish  my  hand  another  time."  She 
laughed.  "I  hope  you're  not  seriously  annoyed  about 
it." 

"It's  foolish,"  he  insisted,  and  replaced  it  with 

224 


The  Little  Land 


elaborate  care.  Then  he  ran  to  join  his  ruddy  cicerone. 
He  found  the  girl  a  good  comrade,  who  helped  him  to 
forget  those  things  he  wished  to  forget.  Somehow  in 
the  quiet  air,  that  nameless  secret  thing  that  had  been 
eating  his  heart  drew  off  a  little.  Almost  he  could 
believe  it  had  all  been  some  hideous  mistake. 

He  tried  at  first  to  join  Virginia  in  her  sports.  Tennis 
looked  foolishly  easy,  but  after  sending  four  of  the 
balls  beyond  recovery  he  suspected  that  the  game 
might  demand  something  more  than  willingness  and 
strength,  and  relinquished  his  racquet  to  watch  the 
girl.  He  felt  the  glow  of  the  sport  in  following  her 
swift  movements,  and  he  envied  the  young  men  who 
could  play  with  her. 

Golf  looked  not  only  easy  but  useless ;  and  it  was  with 
only  half  a  heart  that  he  essayed  it.  He  splintered  a 
driver  at  his  first  attempt,  and  he  did  not  venture  a 
second.  Still,  he  liked  golf  better  than  tennis,  he 
decided,  for  he  could  carry  the  bag  of  things  she  played 
with  and  hunt  lost  balls,  and  wander  over  the  course 
alone  with  her.  He  was  never  able  to  believe  that  a 
stroke  more  or  less  in  holing  the  ball  could  be  a  matter 
of  real  moment,  but  the  girl  was  worth  watching  while 
she  believed  it.  He  had  never  seen  a  real  girl  near 
before,  and  he  was  surprised  to  find  it  so  fine  a  sight. 

In  the  canoe  he  was  more  successful,  contriving  to 
accomplish  by  sheer  strength  of  arm  what  the  girl  did 
more  adroitly.  They  would  paddle  far  up  the  little 
river,  to  float  down  in  the  late  afternoon.  The  river, 
too,  was  a  stage  river,  running  between  low,  willow- 
fringed  banks,  or  winding  among  hay  fields  that  sloped 
back  to  the  upland,  or  lush  green  meadows  where  cows 
were  posed  effectively.  The  girl  became  part  of  the 

225 


Ewing's  Lady 

picture  when  they  turned  to  float  homeward,  facing 
him  from  the  bow,  her  hair  glinting  yellow  and  her 
skin  crystal  clear  against  the  crimson  cushion  she 
leaned  upon. 

They  rode  together,  too — he  could  join  her  there — 
over  the  upland  and  far  into  the  little  hills,  between 
tangled  hedge  rows,  past  little  farms  with  orchards  of 
ripening  fruit.  They  passed  many  deserted  places, 
mournful  in  their  stagnation,  overgrown  with  wild 
things,  the  houses  forlornly  dismantled,  perhaps  with 
the  roof  sunken,  the  chimney  toppled,  and  the  weather- 
beaten  walls  in  ruinous  decay.  He  was  touched  by 
these  places.  The  houses  must  have  been  built  with 
high  hope,  and  once  have  been  alive  with  full-hearted 
effort.  Their  walls  had  enclosed  dreams  and  joyous 
dramas.  Then  discouragement  had  fallen  and  the 
search  for  another  place  of  beginning.  He  wondered 
what  had  become  of  all  the  people  who  had  built  these 
homes.  He  hoped  they  had  begun  in  another  place 
with  undimmed  resolve  and  had  found  peace.  Yet 
there  were  sinister  hints  that  their  ghosts  haunted 
these  spots  of  their  first  failures,  beseeching  of  the  ruins 
something  of  the  first  freshness  of  impulse. 

He  tried  to  tell  Virginia  Bartell  that  he,  too,  was 
like  a  deserted  farm,  falling  into  ruin.  But  this  only 
made  her  laugh.  She  could  not  believe  in  failure,  it 
seemed.  And  he  laughed  with  her,  after  a  little.  It 
was  not  possible,  after  all,  to  suppose  that  he  could  go 
on  being  a  ruin  forever.  These  frustrated  home  makers 
must  have  succeeded  at  last,  and  so  would  he.  In  some 
manner  the  girl  herself  became  an  assurance  of  this. 
Her  mere  buoyancy  uplifted  him. 

These  times  alone  with  the  girl  were  not  always  to  be 

226 


The  Little  Land 


had  for  the  asking.  There  abounded  other  youths 
who  prized  her  companionship;  able,  dauntless  youths 
and  skilled  with  accomplishments. 

There  was  one  of  these,  a  tall  young  man,  spectacled, 
of  a  high,  shiny  forehead,  a  student  of  a  youth,  who 
haunted  the  gray  house  like  a  malignant  wraith  of  erudi- 
tion, and  condescended  to  the  girl  almost  as  flagrantly 
as  he  did  to  Ewing.  His  talk,  whether  of  machinery 
or  morals,  socialism  or  chemistry,  was  meant  to  instruct. 
Wherefore  the  girl  slunk  from  him,  not  always  so  skil- 
fully as  might  have  been  wished — with  far  less  subtlety, 
indeed,  than  her  aunt  wished. 

"  I'm  almost  certain  you  offended  him  this  afternoon," 
she  remarked  on  a  day  when  they  had  fled  flagrantly 
to  the  river,  "though  why  you  should  wish  to  avoid 
him  is  beyond  me.  You  know  that  he's  from  one  of 
the  very  oldest  families  in  West  Roxbury."  The 
girl's  tone  was  penitent  as  she  answered:  "But  I'd 
promised  to  go  in  the  canoe  with  Mr.  Ewing."  There 
was  no  penitence,  however,  in  the  look  she  flashed  at 
Ewing  over  her  aunt's  shoulder,  daring  him  to  prove 
if  he  were  a  man.  He  nerved  himself  in  the  glance. 

"But  you  see,  Mrs.  Ranley,  I'm  from  one  of  the 
very  oldest  families  in  Hinsdale  County,  Colorado." 
The  girl  applauded  him  with  her  eyes,  and  the  incident 
was  closed  with  a  word  of  mild  gratification  from  the 
old  lady.  She  was  pleased  to  observe  that  he  felt  a 
family  pride,  even  though  any  county  in  Colorado  was, 
of  course,  beyond  consideration. 

Their  favorite  walk  home  from  the  golf  links  led  them 
through  a  churchyard,  and  here  they  often  rested  in 
the  cool  of  the  afternoon;  not  in  the  new  part  where 
monument  and  mound  were  obtrusively  recent,  but  up 

227 


Ewing's  Lady 

the  hill  from  these,  where  death  was  so  ancient  as  to  be 
touched  with  the  grace  of  the  antique.  Here,  in  a 
pleasant  gloom  of  oak  shade,  cypress  and  elm,  they 
loitered  among  the  drab  stones  that  headed  mounds 
worn  down  and  overgrown  with  sweetbrier,  wild  rose, 
and  matted  grass;  and  here  Mrs.  L,aithe  sometimes 
joined  them  for  the  homeward  stroll,  walking  too  much, 
Ewing  thought,  like  one  who  had  risen  from  the  for- 
gotten multitude  under  foot.  Yet,  when  he  spoke  of 
her  health  she  always  responded  with  her  gay  assurances, 
and  seemed,  indeed,  to  be  more  concerned  about  his 
welfare  than  her  own.  He  had  not  been  able  to  talk 
to  her  freely.  There  was  so  much  about  Teevan  that 
he  felt  she  would  not  understand.  Besides,  he  could 
not  speak  to  her  about  Teevan. 

At  the  end  of  the  first  week  he  had  written  to  Teevan 
to  say  that  he  must  talk  with  him.  The  little  man 
had  replied  from  his  favorite  sea  place,  naming  a  day 
when  he  would  be  back  in  town. 

The  prospect  depressed  Ewing  anew.  It  had  been 
easy  to  lie  on  his  back  in  a  field,  nettled  by  disgust  with 
himself,  and  frame  speeches  of  self-mastery.  But 
reflection  had  brought  him  doubt.  The  speeches 
would  have  to  be  made,  and  yet,  in  a  way,  he  was 
Teevan's  property;  Teevan  had  invested  money  in  him. 
This  added  to  his  depression.  And  this  was  why  the 
girl  reported  him  to  her  sister  as  a  youth  joyful  in  odd 
moments  of  forgetting,  but  sunk  in  some  black  despair 
when  he  remembered;  a  young  man  she  could  not  at 
all  understand.  And  Mrs.  Laithe,  puzzling  over  his 
trouble,  divining  that  Teevan  would  somehow  be  at 
the  bottom  of  it,  determined  on  a  move  to  aid  him,  a 
move  that  would  take  her  once  more  to  Teevan  himself. 

228 


The  Little  Land 


She  had  sought  him  the  night  after  her  talk  with  Syden- 
ham,  but  the  interview  had  come  to  nothing.  Teevan 
had  been  so  plausibly  solicitous  about  Ewing's  success 
that  she  had  found  herself  unready  to  tax  him  with  a 
knowledge  of  Ewing's  identity,  or  with  motives  inimical 
to  him.  His  excessive  amiability,  his  air  of  unsuspect- 
ing sincerity,  had  disarmed  her.  But  this  time,  she 
determined,  there  would  be  no  more  fencing.  She 
would  attack  straightforwardly. 

The  day  they  left  the  girl  lightly 'bade  Ewing  farewell 
with  talk  of  meetings  in  town.  He  had  not  told  her  of 
a  resolve  formed  the  day  before  when  they  had  ridden 
to  a  hill  above  the  village  from  which  they  could  see 
veritable  mountains  in  the  distance — his  own  delectable 
mountains  they  had  seemed,  calling  to  him.  Instantly 
he  had  determined  to  go  back  to  his  own.  Not  in 
defeat,  but  for  fresh  courage.  He  would  stay  there 
working  as  he  could,  until  Teevan  was  paid.  Then 
the  Rookery  would  know  him  again,  and  the  men  of 
the  Monastery — know  him  going  his  own  way. 

He  was  meditating  gloomily  on  his  retreat  as  the 
train  bore  him  back  to  town  with  Mrs.  Laithe.  And 
she,  alive  to  the  distress  that  showed  in  his  face,  forgot 
everything  but  him,  the  one  she  had  helplessly  and 
irrevocably  taken  for  her  own,  half  her  entreating  child, 
half  her  master,  terrible  and  beloved.  She  watched 
his  face  from  half-closed  eyes,  finding  it  unutterably 
sad,  and,  without  her  being  able  to  withhold  it,  her 
mind  constantly  repeated  the  image  of  an  embrace, 
to  soothe  and  sustain  him.  Incessantly  this  unsub- 
stantial enfoldment  took  place  in  her  inner  sense,  like 
some  wild  drama  among  ocean-bed  things,  far  below 
an  unrippled  surface.  Over  and  over  the  phantom 

229 


E wing's  Lady 


woman  beat  down  his  enemies,  encircled  him  from  harm, 
consoled  him  against  her  heart,  cherished  him  like 
the  dear  walls  of  a  home.  And  she  could  not  halt  this 
phantom  play.  Once  she  divided  her  arms  and  raised 
them  a  little,  as  one  in  a  dream  faintly  acts  his  vision. 
Ewing  thought  she  was  drawing  her  chiffon  boa  about 
her,  and  he  replaced  it  on  her  shoulders. 

Floating  about  this  obsession  in  her  mind  was  the 
dismayed  thought  of  Teevan.  She  was  fixed  on  going 
to  him  for  the  truth,  and  this  disturbed  her  like  a  coming 
battle.  She  was  not  used  to  the  feeling  of  antagonism, 
she,  with  her  gentle  woman's  life,  but  she  felt  an  un- 
known energy  welling  up  in  her — the  fierceness  of  the 
defender.  She  would  have  the  truth  from  Teevan. 


230 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

EWING   INTERRUPTS 

ELEANOR    LAITHE    started    from    a  half   sleep. 
She  had  begun  to  dream  while  still  conscious 
of   the   library   walls,  the  couch   on   which  she 
lay,  the  curtains  swelling  in  and  out  of  the  opened 
windows  with  a  heated  breeze  of  late  afternoon,  the 
rattle  of  a  wagon  through  the  street,  and  the  shrilling 
of  boys  at  a  game. 

She  turned  her  face  from  the  wall,  fixed  the  pillows 
more  easily  under  her  head,  and  stared  into  the  room, 
her  eyes  narrowing  in  calculation  as  she  went  lucidly 
back  for  the  hundredth  time  since  she  had  flung  herself 
there,  to  check  off  the  details  of  that  half  hour  with 
the  man  who  healed — or  did  not  heal. 

She  had  shrewdly  rejected  the  specialist  Birley  had 
named  for  another  who  would  not  know  her.  She 
wanted  no  mistaken  kindness,  no  polite  reluctance  or 
glossing,  and  she  feared  to  find  this  in  one  who  might 
regard  her  as  something  more  than  a  casual  human 
body  in  evil  case.  She  had  felt  bound  to  have  plain 
words.  She  would  know  what  she  faced  as  one  knows 
heat  or  cold. 

And  she  had  gained  the  full  of  her  wish.  The  man 
had  taken  her  as  casually  as  she  offered  herself.  His 
questions  were  few,  his  examination  mechanically 
impersonal,  his  diagnosis  cool  and  informing.  She 
had  felt  herself  a  culprit,  listening  to  sentence. 

231 


Swing's  Lady 

"You  think  I  have  a  year  to  live?" 

"Longer,  perhaps,  if  you  take  it  this  way,  without 
worry.  Worry  eats  the  tissue  even  faster  than  those  lit- 
tle vegetable  parasites.  I  take  it  you  eliminate  worry?  " 
He  drew  on  his  gloves. 

She  smiled  now,  with  pride  in  her  cunning.  Her 
simulation  of  unconcerned  curiosity  had  been  perfect, 
as  if  it  were  another's  wasting  body  she  brought  him. 
She  had  hidden  all  that  fond  love  of  life,  her  life  of  action, 
sensation;  of  hope  ever  enlarging,  of  fruitions  certain, 
innumerable,  and  dear.  No  sign  had  the  practiced 
eyes  read  of  the  inner  rage  that  maddened  her  at  thought 
of  so  much  life  unlived — life  of  mirth  and  tears,  height 
and  depth,  grief,  ecstasy  and  common  levels.  She 
was  avid  of  them  all,  dared  them  all,  wished  only  to 
play  the  game,  vaunting  a  fine  zest  for  the  sport  with 
all  its  hazards. 

She  had  found  in  her  hour  alone  there  that  she  did 
not  fear  death — only  detested  it.  She  feared  it  as  little 
as  a  child  fears  sleep;  hated  it  as  a  child,  torn  untimely 
from  play,  hates  to  go  to  bed. 

"  Longer,  perhaps,  if  you  take  it  this  way — eliminate 
worry."  But  she  knew  she  could  not  take  it  "this 
way;"  could  not  give  up  as  this  judge  believed  she  had 
done.  She  must  rebel  to  the  last.  As  long  as  she 
played  she  must  play  in  the  true  spirit.  She  might  be 
vanquished,  but  she  would  not  debase  the  sport.  She 
smiled  at  a  reminiscence  of  her  brother's  college  life, 
catching  at  a  phrase.  "  It  seems  I'm  not  a  'quitter,' " 
she  thought. 

Then  she  halted  this  race  of  thought  in  sudden  amuse- 
ment. She  felt  her  evening  fever  rising,  the  sinister 
warmth  and  false  glow  that  burned  like  a  red  flame 

232 


Ewing  Interrupts 


below  the  outer  corners  of  her  eyes.  It  had  come 
earlier  than  usual,  hurried,  doubtless,  by  the  very 
passion  of  her  rebelling.  The  man  had  been  right. 
But  she  would  have  no  waiting,  half-hearted  conflict, 
for  all  that. 

She  sat  up  quickly.  A  certain  battle  was  set  for  this 
day,  one  that  would  test  her  gameness.  She  rose  to 
look  at  a  clock,  and  knew  that  Teevan  probably  awaited 
Ewing.  But  she  could  be  first  there,  and  she  felt  equal 
to  the  clash.  The  very  fever  would  sustain  her.  And 
she  would  be  wary  once  more  that  day,  cunning  to 
learn  what  she  had  to  oppose.  Then  she  would  be 
valiant.  If  the  fever  only  gave  her  strength,  small 
matter  the  fuel  that  fed  it. 

She  smoothed  her  hair,  flung  a  scarf  over  her  shoulders, 
and  stepped  out  into  the  early  twilight.  She  felt  a 
slight  giddiness  as  she  walked  the  short  distance  to 
Teevan's  door,  but  she  had  shrugged  this  away  by 
the  time  she  rang  the  bell.  There  was  a  wait,  and  she 
rang  again.  Then,  when  she  began  to  fear  that  she 
assailed  an  empty  house,  she  heard  rapid  steps;  the 
door  swung  back,  and  Teevan  himself  stood  before  her, 
Teevan  jaunty  in  summer  negligee  of  flannels  and 
silken  shirt,  who  deftly  covered  with  his  froth  of  gal- 
lantry whatever  surprise  he  felt  at  sight  of  her. 

"My  dear  lady!  So  neighborly  of  you,  and  what 
luck  I  was  in!  I'm  off  Neville's  yacht  for  the  evening 
only  on  a  bit  of  business.  Come  up  to  my  den.  It's 
stifling  down  here." 

She  followed   him  up  the  stairs,  feeling  a  reckless 
strength  for  combat.     He  took  her  to  a  room  at  the 
front  of  the  house  where  there  was  a  desk,  a  few  lounging 
chairs,  and  an  air  of  mannish  comfort. 
16  233 


Ewing's  Lady 

"I'll  not  keep  you  long,  Randall,"  she  said,  hesitating 
at  first  to  sit,  illogically  fearing  that  weakness  might 
seize  her  if  she  relaxed  her  body.  After  a  moment, 
however,  she  took  the  chair  he  pushed  forward. 

"As  long  as  you  like,  Eleanor.  The  breeze  comes 
cooler  through  those  south  windows  while  you're  here. 
Let  me  offer  you  a  brandy  and  soda.  No?  You'll 
let  me  take  this  alone,  then?  Thanks!  I'm  feeling  a 
bit  done  up  by  the  heat."  He  seated  himself  at  the 
desk,  sipped  from  his  glass  and  looked  a  question  at  her. 
She  debated  her  beginning. 

"It's  about  Gilbert  Ewing." 

His  dark  little  eyes  narrowed  upon  her  with  agreeable 
interest. 

"Ah,  to  be  sure — Ewing." 

"You  know  he's  been  staying  a  fortnight  with  us  at 
Kensington." 

He  nodded  a  gracious  assent,  still  waiting,  still  veiled 
with  an  effect  that  aroused  all  her  caution. 

"He  came  back  to  town  yesterday." 

"He  must  have  enjoyed  the  place  immensely.  I'm 
nowhere  so  strongly  reminded  of  rural  England,  saving 
the  architecture,  of  course.  Ewing  painted,  doubtless?  " 

"Oh,  no,  he  did  nothing.  He  played  with  my  sister, 
chiefly.  Virginia  took  him  about.  They  were  insepara- 
ble. He  had  heart  for  nothing  but  her — no  work,  noth- 
ing else."  She  had  deliberately  lengthened  the  speech, 
wishing  him  not  to  see  that  she  watched  for  an  opening. 
Teevan  seemed  to  feel  a  leading.  He  searched  her  face 
as  he  asked: 

"They  liked  each  other  immensely,  eh?" 

"Oh,  yes,  I  couldn't  tell  you " 

He  felt  the  weariness  of  her  tone,  almost  a  faintness. 

234 


Ewing  Interrupts 


The  color  burned  darkly  high  on  her  cheeks,  her  eyes 
showed  an  exotic  and  painful  splendor.  He  suddenly 
saw  that  she  must  have  sustained  some  blow;  that 
her  luster  was  a  fevered  glitter  sad  and  terrible,  and  that 
she  was  nerving  herself  to  some  ordeal.  He  sank  back 
in  his  seat,  all  acuteness.  Had  she  betrayed  herself  in 
the  beginning,  struck  open  the  secret  for  him  by  her 
first  words?  A  jealous  woman,  then — a  flouted  woman 
come  to  turn  on  the  man?  It  was  no  conclusion  to  leap 
at;  rather  a  piquant  suspicion  to  verify. 

He  set  his  glass  down  and  picked  up  a  slender-bladed 
dagger  from  the  desk  before  him,  absently  bending  the 
steel.  He  knew  they  were  both  veiled  for  the  moment. 
His  eyes  challenged  her  to  open  speech  of  Ewing  as  he 
held  the  dagger  up  to  her  and  said  lazily,  "A  beauty, 
that — undoubted  Toledo  work.  Picked  it  up  in  a  shop 
at  Newport  yesterday.  They  knew  how  to  temper  steel 
in  those  days.  See  its  edge — "  He  tore  a  bit  of  paper 
from  a  pad  and  slashed  it  into  strips,  his  eyes  rising  to 
hers  at  each  cut,  interrogatory,  through  the  complacence 
of  a  man  exhibiting  a  fine  property. 

"Randall,  you've  been  friendly  with  him,  and  yet 
you  know  who  he  is ;  you've  known  it  a  long  time.  And 
you — you  can't  like  him." 

He  still  toyed  with  his  plaything,  prickling  its  needle- 
like  point  into  the  pad  of  paper  under  his  hand.  Then 
he  turned  on  her  with  a  sudden,  insinuating  droop  of 
the  eyelids. 

"Very  well — and  you've  been  friendly  with  him, 
say  until  two  weeks  ago.  And  you're  no  longer  so. 
I  name  no  reason.  But  you  detest  him  now.  Am  I 
wrong?  Can  I  still  read  a  woman?"  He  leaned  toward 
her,  peering  nearer  with  each  query.  He  meant  them 

235 


Ewing's  Lady 

to  be  like  thrusts  of  the  dagger  which  he  now  threw  on 
the  desk.  Her  eyes  fell  in  unfeigned  confusion  under 
his  look,  her  mind  running  many  ways  to  come  on  the 
meaning  beneath  this  preposterous  guess.  She  looked 
up  to  him,  seeking  a  hint,  but  his  eyes  were  inscrutable, 
his  mouth  set  in  a  sagacious  smile,  intimating,  accusing. 
She  looked  down  again,  suddenly  feeling  it  wise  to  let 
him  think  as  he  did — whatever  absurd  thing  it  might  be. 
She  sighed  deeply,  relaxed  in  her  chair  and  met  his 
eyes  again.  Teevan  beheld  a  woman  defenseless  to 
his  insight;  one  too  proud  to  confess  in  words,  but  too 
weak,  too  vindictive,  perhaps,  to  attempt  denial. 

"  I  see,  my  girl — don't  trouble  to  speak."  He  replen- 
ished his  glass  from  the  decanter.  He  was  delighted 
with  his  penetration;  pleased,  also,  to  believe  that  here 
was  an  ally,  if  one  should  be  needed.  He  glanced  at 
her  again.  She  sat  silent  and  drooping. 

"  You  did  well  to  come  to  me,  Eleanor.  I  fancy  you'll 
be  interested  to  know  what  our  young  friend  is  about 
to  encounter." 

"Oh,  I  shall,  I  shall!  Tell  me,  please."  He  smiled 
at  her  eagerness,  so  poorly  subdued,  recording  in  a 
mental  footnote  the  viperish  fury  of  a  woman  in  her 
plight.  Still,  he  thought  she  carried  it  off  rather  well. 
There  had  been  need  for  his  keenness  to  read  her 
secret. 

"  I'll  tell  you,  my  girl,  and  I'm  jolly  glad  to  find  some 
one  who  can  enjoy  it  with  me.  What  am  I  going  to  do 
with  him?"  He  rose  and  paced  the  room  for  so  long  a 
time  that  she  felt  she  could  not  bear  it.  She  was  about 
to  speak  when  he  abruptly  halted  and  faced  her  with  a 
petrifying  burst  of  malignance.  "What  am  I  going  to 
do  with  him? — wring  him,  wreck  him,  choke  him, 

236 


Ewing  Interrupts 


fling  the  fool  back  on  his  dung  heap  to  rot!"  She 
stared  at  him,  panting;  then,  summoning  all  her  ingenuity 
she  smiled  slowly  above  the  sickening  fear  that  had 
rushed  over  her.  Teevan  glowed.  That  smile  of  hers — 
he  could  detect  something  relentless  in  it — was  a  tribute 
to  his  prowess  no  less  than  a  confirmation  of  his  power  to 
read  her. 

"I  don't  understand,"  she  half  whispered,  still  with 
that  restrained  fierceness  that  gave  him  joy. 

"Of  course  you  don't.  Am  I  to  be  read  as  a  primer? 
I'm  subtler,  I  trust,  than  an  earthquake,  a  cyclone,  a 
deluge.  You  don't  understand,  but  you  shall."  He 
paced  the  floor  again  with  a  foppish  air  of  pride.  "Ah, 
it  has  worked  so  beautifully.  Really,  I've  regretted 
there  was  no  one  I  could  let  in  to  enjoy  a  work  of  art 
with  me.  But  you,  I  see,  will  have  the  taste  to  applaud 
it,  Nell,  now  that  your  eyes  are  opened.  Oh,  the  thing 
has  gone  ideally!  Only  applause  was  lacking." 

"  I  don't  understand,  Randall."  She  could  hardly 
manage  the  words.  She  was  afraid  her  heart  would 
beat  them  into  some  wild  cry  of  impatience. 

"You  shall — you  shall."  He  gazed  meditatively 
at  her.  "  Yes,  and  you'll  have  to  know  it  all  to  under- 
stand perfectly,  even  my — my  humiliation."  He  un- 
locked the  door  of  a  closet  and  brought  out  something 
she  did  not  recognize  until  he  had  placed  it  across  the 
arms  of  a  chair  and  stepped  back.  It  was  the  portrait 
of  E wing's  mother.  His  face  was  contorted  now  in  a 
most  unpleasant  sneer. 

"  There's  the  motif."  He  resumed  his  seat  at  the  desk, 
facing  the  picture.  The  sneer  had  gone,  and  whatever 
dignity  of  soul  was  in  him  sounded  in  the  next  words. 

"You  can't  know  what  that  meant  to  me  when  I 

237 


Ewing's  Lady 


saw  it,  when  I  knew  who  had  done  it,  when  I  thought  of 
the  creature  who  carried  it  about  parading  his  own 
shame  and  hers — and  mine!" 

"  I  think  I  can  understand  that,  Randall." 

"You  can't,  I  say.  No  woman  could.  You  can't 
begin  to  know  the  humiliation,  how  it  tore  me,  knowing 
this  fellow  walked  the  earth  at  all,  a  nameless  spawn, 
holding  my  shame  over  me — over  me!  threatening 
every  instant  to  cover  me  again  with  it.  As  if  I'd 
not  survived  enough!  Good  God!  was  I  to  go  through 
it  again,  and  know  that  this  puling  whelp  was  the  in- 
strument— a  thing  to  torture  me,  hold  me  up  to  ridicule, 
to  make  men  smile  and  titter  and  mock  me  in  club 
corners?  Wasn't  her  insult  enough?  Must  she  breed 
obscene  things  to  echo  it?"  He  groaned  and  turned 
away  with  a  gesture  of  warding  off.  In  the  mist  of  her 
besetment  the  woman  found  herself  thinking  that  the 
fine  little  hands  in  this  gesture  should  have  been  lace- 
beruffled  at  the  wrist.  He  was  the  figure  of  stabbed 
vanity,  the  bleeding  coxcomb.  He  flung  an  arm  toward 
the  picture  with  bitter  vehemence. 

"Ah,  my  lady!  my  fine,  loose  lady,  with  your  high 
talk  and  your  low  way!  I  hope  you've  watched  me 
with  those  painted  eyes  of  yours.  Did  you  think  I'd 
never  strike  back?" 

"But  now,  Randall — how?"  He  replenished  his 
glass  and  turned  slowly  away  from  the  picture. 

"How,  indeed?  That's  where  you  meet  me  at  last. 
Not  every  one  could  have  carried  it  through,  but  it 
was  simple  for  me.  Difficult  in  a  way,  yes.  It's  been 
hard  to  stomach  the  fool,  with  his  conceit  and  his  whin- 
ing. Oh,  he  fancies  himself  tremendously,  for  all  his 
ways  of  a  holy  innocent,  his  damned  airs  of  a  sugar- 

238 


Ewing  Interrupts 


candy  Galahad.  But  I've  won  him,  I  tell  you,  by  that 
very  innocence  of  his.  I'm  the  one  soul  in  the  world 
he  truly  reveres.  His  sun  rises  and  sets  in  me.  And 
now  he's  where  I  want  him.  I've  worn  out  his  hope, 
kept  him  from  doing  the  thing  he  wanted  to  do,  kept 
him  on  the  edge  of  despair  out  of  respect  and  fear  and 
love  of  me.  The  beggar  has  a  certain  devilish  sort  of 
genius,  but  he  doesn't  know  where  it  lies,  and  I've  taken 
precious  good  care  he  shouldn't  find  out.  Oh,  but  I've 
had  a  rich  time  of  it — disgusting  and  rich.  Nearly  a 
year  it  is  now  that  he's  led  me  this  dance,  but  I've 
hooked  him  beautifully,  and  to-night  I'll  pull  him  in." 
She  had  been  watching  the  play  of  spite  on  his  face,  and 
it  was  with  difficulty  that  she  moistened  her  lips  to  say: 

"But  what  will  you  do  to-night — what  can  you 
say?" 

"Everything  I've  laid  a  train  for  saying,  this  year 
past.  Tell  him  how  I  despise  him  for  his  empty  pre- 
tensions, his  constant,  wretched  failures.  Show  him  to 
himself  as  a  conceited  dawdler  and  a  cheat  who  has 
lived  on  my  bounty — oh,  I  saw  to  that — a  cheat  who 
has  defrauded  me  of  time  and  money  and  faith  in  man. 
Never  fear  but  I'll  know  the  things  to  say.  I've  told 
them  to  her  often  enough."  He  thrust  viciously  at  the 
portrait.  "And  you'll  hear  it  all,  my  Lady  Disdain, 
with  your  face  to  the  wall  to  hide  its  belated  blushes." 

Again  she  tried  to  speak  but  her  lips  were  dry.  At 
last  she  achieved  a  few  rather  husky  words. 

"  Randall,  if  you  please,  might  I  have  a  glass  of  some- 
thing— water,  I'd  like." 

"To  be  sure,  my  child.  You're  certain  you  won't  join 
me  in  a  brandy  and  soda?  No?  I'll  get  you  something 
below." 

239 


Ewing's  Lady 

She  clutched  at  the  moment  to  quiet,  if  she  could, 
that  tumult  of  heart  and  brain.  Her  mind  dwelt  chiefly 
on  Ewing's  dejection  as  she  had  left  him  the  day  before. 
Teevan  came  back,  bearing  a  carafe  and  a  bottle  of  soda 
water.  She  drank  a  glass  of  the  water  greedily,  and 
murmured  her  thanks  as  he  gave  her  more.  It  refreshed 
her  and  she  seemed  to  feel  a  renewal  of  strength.  Her 
fever  was  heating  her  brain  to  wild  activity.  She  felt 
a  crazy  desire  to  cool  her  head,  to  lean  it  against  snow 
or  cold  metal.  She  thought  fleetingly  of  cold  things  she 
had  touched,  of  marble,  icicles,  a  brass  rail  with  frost 
on  it.  She  was  goading  her  mind  for  a  way  to  reach 
Teevan.  She  drank  the  second  glass  of  water,  and  again 
he  refilled  it,  protesting  against  so  poor  a  tipple  as  he 
took  more  brandy  for  himself. 

She  watched  him  narrowly  as  he  prepared  his  drink. 
The  decanter  was  so  low  that  she  thought  he  must  be 
feeling  what  he  had  taken,  and  she  wondered  if  it  might 
not  have  softened  him,  released  some  generosity  in  his 
poor  soul. 

"You  must  have  suffered,  Randall,  in  all  this.  But 
won't  it  hurt  you  still  more,  doing  what  you  mean  to  do 
— when  you  make  him  suffer?" 

"His  suffering!"  He  waved  a  deprecating  hand. 
"What  can  he  suffer  compared  to  me?  Disgust  I've 
suffered,  yes,  and  mortification.  He  could  feel  nothing 
approaching  that  if  I  flayed  him  here.  Why,  Nell,  I 
pulled  a  rose  from  its  bush  this  morning  in  Neville's 
garden,  and  crushed  a  worm  crawling  on  its  stem.  A 
poor,  tiny  green  thing,  yet  it  had  lived,  and  had  its  suc- 
cesses and  failures  after  a  fashion.  But  you  can't 
imagine  its  actual  suffering  in  death  to  equal  my  own 
mere  disgust  at  crushing  it." 

240 


Ewing  Interrupts 


The  brandy  had  not  softened  him,  she  thought. 
Could  it  have  made  him  cautious? 

"Have  you  never  suspected,  Randall,  that  there 
may  be  a  sleeping  fighter  in  him?"  There  was  a  glitter 
in  her  tormented  eyes,  a  sudden  fierce  wish  to  behold 
battle  between  this  puny  insulter  and  Ewing  aroused 
to  his  might. 

"  Bah !  a  fighter ! "  He  snapped  contemptuous  fingers. 
"There's  the  look  in  his  eye  sometimes,  but  I've  dis- 
armed him.  He  can't  fight  me,  his  benefactor,  his  best 
friend.  Never  fear;  he'll  wilt,  wither,  shrivel  up.  Oh, 
trust  me  for  that.  And  suppose  the  impossible,  suppose 
the  worm  turns  in  some  fit  of  wormish  desperation.  I've 
the  coup,  have  I  not?  You  know  what  his  mother  is 
to  him,  a  damned  romantic  memory  of  pure  womanhood 
and  all  that  rot.  Suppose  him  capable  of  so  much  as 
an  eye-flash  of  defiance.  Why,  then,  my  child,  he'll 
know  who — he'll  know  what — his  mother  was;  and  he'll 
know  my  right  to  describe  her.  He'll  know  what  he  is. 
And  the  words  won't  puzzle  him :  he'll  need  no  lexicon — 
crisp,  Anglo-Saxon  words.  Do  you  think  that  will 
leave  any  fight  in  him — her  shame  and  his?  By  Gad ! 
Nell,  it's  too  good  to  keep  from  him.  He  shall  have  it 
anyway,  though  I'd  meant  to  keep  it  back  for  my  own 
sake.  But  that  shall  be  the  clincher.  Before  her  face 
there  I'll  tell  him  what  she  was." 

"Not  that,  Randall,  surely  not  that!"  Her  veil 
of  calmness  had  flown  on  the  wind  of  his  hate.  She 
knew  she  must  reveal  herself.  Her  words  had  been  so 
near  a  cry  that  he  turned  on  her  in  amazement. 

"Listen,  Randall,  don't — don't  do  that.  Let  him 
off.  I  promise  to  take  him  away.  It's  all  true ;  you've 
handled  him  well,  and  you  can  break  him  now — but 

241 


Ewing's  Lady 


don't.  Please,  please  let  him  go.  I'll  take  him  away,  I 
tell  you.  I  promise  he  shall  never  bother  you  again," 

He  looked  at  her,  incredulous. 

"You're  asking  me  to  consider  him — really?" 

"No,  no — to  consider  me.  Please,  please  listen — 
please  consider  me." 

"But  you — I  thought  you " 

"  Randall " — she  had  regained  a  little  of  her  first  cool- 
ness— "I'm  done  for.  I  found  that  out  to-day.  I've 
a  year  to  live,  at  most.  A  scant  year,  if  it's  to  be  like 
this.  Try  to  grasp  it.  I've  wanted  so  much,  had  so 
little  of  life.  But,  I  must  go,  they  tell  me.  Can  you 
understand  what  that  means,  as  well  as  I  understood 
what  this  meant  to  you — a  sentence  of  death,  a  few 
little  months  to  snatch  at  happiness?" 

He  stared  at  her  uncertainly,  but  half  comprehending. 
She  saw  that  the  drink  was  affecting  him  at  last.  His 
eyes  were  dulled,  his  face  had  lost  its  centered  look. 

"Going  to  die,  Eleanor?  Die  in  a  year?  What  rot! 
Don't  talk  rot.  Nobody  dies  in  a  year."  He  spoke 
carefully,  with  a  deliberate  attack  on  each  word,  as  if 
he  mistrusted  his  tongue. 

"But  it's  true,  Randall,  I  swear  it's  true.  'Can  you 
understand?" 

"Understand?"  he  repeated,  and  through  her  tense 
absorption  she  was  astonished  to  see  on  his  face  an 
incredible  look  of  pity.  ' '  Understand  ?  Why,  of  course ! 
And  it's  too  bad,  my  girl.  Poor  Eleanor!  Die  in  a 
year — why  wouldn't  I  understand?  But  never  mind" 
— he  seemed  to  search  clumsily  for  words  of  cheer. 
"Death  isn't  anything  but  an  incident  in  the  scheme 
of  life — a  precious  contemptible  one,  I've  no  doubt. 
We  live,  and  that's  a  little  thing — but  death's  littler. 

242 


Ewing  Interrupts 


I  dare  say  we  live  as  long  as  we  need  to.  Who  was 
the  old  chap — Plotinus,  wasn't  it? — conceived  the  body 
to  be  a  penitential  mechanism  for  the  soul?  All  the 
better  if  we  expiate  early.  Gad!  I  must  have  had  a 
quantity  of  things  to  atone  for — though  I'm  really 
younger  than  you  may  think,  Nell.  Poor  girl — poor 
girl!"  He  brightened  as  he  drained  his  glass  to  her. 
"Here's  to  you,  wherever  you  are.  Come,  be  cheerful 
anyway.  What  was  it  struck  in  my  mind  yesterday? 
— a  sentence  from  one  of  Arbuthnot's  letters  to  Swift — 
just  the  meat  for  you — 'A  reasonable  hope  of  going — a 
reasonable  hope  of  going  to  a  good  place  and  an  absolute 
certainty  of  leaving  a  bad  one.'  That's  the  sentiment 
— keep  it  in  mind,  my  dear." 

She  was  nerving  herself  to  new  appeals,  half  fearing 
she  could  not  hold  his  attention.  She  seized  on  that 
unprecedented  look  of  compassion. 

"  But,  Randall,  you'll  let  him  off— let  him  off  for  me— 
for  my  sake."  In  her  eagerness  she  rose  and  fluttered 
to  the  desk,  standing  before  him.  He  whirled  his  chair 
about,  and  the  look  of  commiseration  had  gone. 

"  No,  no,  no !  You  can't  understand,  Nell.  I  couldn't 
let  him  off  if  I  wanted  to.  It's  fate,  its  retribution — 
the  sins  of  the  father — it's  scriptural,  I  tell  you — " 
His  eyes  were  gleaming  again  with  steely  implacability. 

"But  for  me,  Randall,  for  my  sake,  for  me  alone — 
not  thinking  of  him?" 

"Ah,  lady,  set  me  a  harder  task,  but  one  of  dignity — 
as  difficult,  as  dangerous  as  you  like,  so  it  has  some 
dignity.  But  not  that.  Here  " — he  gracefully  extended 
the  handle  of  the  dagger  to  her — "  slay  me  an  you  will — 
the  blade  is  keen — a  toy,  but  deadly — I'll  die  smiling 
if  you  wish.  But  don't  ask  for  that  cub's  happiness. 

243 


Ewing's  Lady 

Don't  rob  me  of  my  pay,  Nell,  my  pay  for  all  I've 
endured  from  him,  his  boastings  and  snivelings,  and 
his  detestable  handshakes.  Don't  talk  rot,  I  say,  even 
if  you  must  die." 

Again  she  set  herself  to  plead,  desperation  feeding 
the  fire  in  her  head  until  she  knew  not  her  words.  She 
was  conscious  only  of  a  torrent  of  speech,  coaxing, 
imploring,  wheedling,  even  threatening.  But  all  she 
evoked  was  the  steady,  smiling  negative,  his  head  shaken 
unwittingly  to  the  rhythm  of  her  phrases. 

She  stopped  at  last,  panting,  striving  to  keep  back  the 
passionate  words  of  entreaty  that  still  formed,  crushing 
them  down  in  a  maddened  consciousness  of  their  im- 
potence. She  stared  wildly,  feeling  only  a  still  stubborn 
determination.  Ewing  would  soon  come — yet  it  seemed 
that  she  had  no  resource  save  appeal.  She  felt  this 
and  raged  against  it,  striding  away  from  Teevan  across 
the  room.  For  the  first  time  in  her  gentle  life  she  was 
feeling  the  sensation  she  thought  a  man  must  feel 
in  fighting.  She  had  an  impulse  to  strike  blindly, 
to  wound,  to  beat  down  with  her  hands.  Without 
volition  she  measured  her  antagonist  and  wondered 
deliriously  if  she  could  throw  him  to  the  floor.  He 
seemed  so  small  to  her,  and  hateful — hateful  and  small 
enough  to  kill.  She  closed  her  eyes  to  shut  him  out, 
but  opened  them  again  quickly,  for  everything  rocked 
in  the  darkness.  She  incessantly  pictured  this  creature, 
naked  in  his  poverty  of  manhood,  smiling  up  at  Ewing, 
the  friendly  one,  who  stood  bowed  down,  blighted  and 
broken  of  heart.  Sometimes  Ewing  had  his  arm  over 
his  face,  and  she  felt  that  he  would  never  take  it  away — 
move  on  thus  forever,  like  a  figure  in  an  anguished 
dream. 

244 


Ewing  Interrupts 


Constantly  beside  her  thoughts,  like  a  little  refrain, 
went  the  remembrance  that  she  had  brought  him  there, 
torn  him  from  his  youth  and  splendid  dreams  to  give 
him  to  this — she  the  betrayer!  The  fever  waxed, 
the  tortured  blood  trampled  in  her  head  like  hurrying 
hoofs. 

But  she  could  not  strike  Teevan,  extinguish  him 
with  blows,  and  she  set  herself  again  to  play  the  beggar. 
And  she  could  not  beg  across  the  room.  Bit  by  bit  she 
crept  to  the  entreated  one,  her  great  eyes  full  of  flame 
and  fear,  and  laid  pitiful  hands  on  his  shoulder.  Still 
the  shaken  head  met  her,  the  icy  smile,  the  dulled  eyes. 

"No  good  talking,  Nell!  No  good!  You  mortify 
me,  my  word  you  do.  Demand  something  great, 
something  to  task  a  man;  ask  me " 

Again  he  picked  up  the  dagger  with  a  return  to  that 
extravagant  air  of  the  sighing  gallant. 

" — here,  I  point  it  to  my  heart,  see!  A  mere  thrust — 
your  beautiful  hand  is  still  equal  to  it.  I'd  be  proud 
of  the  blow.  I'd  give  you  my  life  gladly — but  not  my 
self-respect.  You're  too  stunning  a  woman,  Nell,  to 
waste  yourself  on  that  cub — a  woman  to  die  for  indeed. 
You  were  never  finer  than  at  this  moment."  In  the 
excess  of  his  emotion  he  threw  an  arm  about  her  waist. 
She  started  back  but  he  held  her. 

"Never  finer,  Nell,  on  my  soul — too  fine  for  that 
damned " 

She  put  out  her  hands  in  an  instinctive,  shuddering 
movement  of  repulsion.  Still  he  clung  to  her,  muttering 
his  insupportable  phrases.  He  clung  and  she  could 
not  release  herself  without  doing  what  she  had  thought 
was  impossible — exert  her  unused  hands  in  striking, 
thrusting,  beating  off.  She  hesitated:  she  did  not 

245 


Ewing's  Lady 

like  to  touch  him.  He  looked  very  small  and  low  in 
his  chair.  How  low  he  seemed  from  her  dizzy  height! 
And  yet  he  held  so  well.  His  voice  came  faintly,  too, 
as  if  from  afar,  floating  up  faint  and  hateful.  So  he 
would  hold  Ewing  and  slay  him  with  his  voice.  He 
was  playing  with  the  dagger  again  and  proffering  his 
heart  with  maudlin  eyes.  Prisoning  her  still  with  his 
right  arm,  he  took  her  hand  in  his  left  and  clumsily 
set  it  on  the  dagger's  hilt. 

"It  would  be  a  sweet  death,  Nell.  Press  home!" 
He  drew  her  closer,  so  that  she  staggered  on  his  shoulder. 
"Gad!  your  eyes  are  fine.  What  a  woman  you  are! 
Too  great,  Nell,  for  that  beaten  whelp,  even  before 
he  took  to  your  sister " 

She  gave  a  desperate  little  cry  and  struck  out  to  free 
herself.  It  was  hardly  more  than  a  gesture  to  have 
him  away,  but  she  was  conscious,  with  a  lightning 
shock,  that  the  blade  moved  under  her  hand.  She 
heard  Teevan's  shrill  scream  of  fright  and  pain 

"You're  killing  me — you're  killing  me!" 

But  she  saw  only  Ewing  with  covered  face,  and 
pushed  the  harder,  lost  to  all  but  her  blind  sense  of 
opposition.  Then  she  heard  a  new  note  in  Teevan's 
cry. 

"Ewing!  Ewing!" 

She  turned  quickly,  while  Teevan  retreated  round  a 
corner  of  the  desk,  snarling  his  rage — turned  to  see 
Ewing. 


246 


CHAPTER  XXV 
MRS.  LAITHE  is  ENLIGHTENED 

HE  stood  just  inside  the  door,  hat  in  hand,  re- 
garding the  scene  with  a  look  that  was  troubled 
yet  cool.  She  felt  her  way  cautiously  back 
to  a  chair,  afraid  of  fainting,  and  grasped  it  for  support. 
Finding  that  her  hand  still  clutched  the  dagger,  she 
dropped  it  with  a  shudder  of  disgust. 

Ewing  shrewdly  noted  where  the  dagger  fell,  then  his 
eyes  flashed  to  Teevan.  There  was  a  stain  of  blood  on 
the  silken  shirt,  and  the  little  man  was  staring  down  at 
this,  incredulous. 

"By  God!  she  meant  it!"  he  muttered.  Then  his 
eyes  rose  to  meet  Ewing's,  and  a  look  of  sudden  malig- 
nance  blazed  into  them. 

"So  you've  come!"  The  cry,  like  the  look,  was  full 
of  hate.  <: You've  come  in  time,  you  whelp!  Now 
you'll  hear  something  you  might  have  heard  that  first 
night  when  I  had  to  fuddle  you  with  tales  of  a  seizure. 
Now  you'll  know " 

But  the  woman  started  toward  him  with  a  sudden- 
ness that  broke  his  speech. 

"If  you  tell  him  he'll  kill  you—"  The  words  came 
with  a  quick,  whispering  intensity,  and  there  was  a 
rapt,  almost  rejoicing  look  on  her  face,  as  of  one  eager 
for  the  deed. 

Teevan  looked  scornfully  to  Ewing  again,  but  was 

247 


Ewing's  Lady 


chilled  by  a  certain  sharp,  cold  light  in  his  eyes,  the 
look  of  one  alert  and  ready.  His  words  gave  meaning 
to  this  look. 

"If  you  tell  me,  I'll  kill  you,"  said  Ewing.  The 
sentence  was  evenly  uttered,  and  the  tone  was  low, 
almost  deferential,  but  the  intention  was  not  to  be 
mistaken. 

Teevan  laughed,  flourishing  a  gesture  of  scorn  for 
the  threat. 

"I'm  no  coward" — but  he  broke  off,  waiting,  watch- 
ing, with  fear  in  his  eyes. 

"I'll  take  this,"  said  Ewing.  He  lifted  the  portrait 
tenderly  from  the  chair  and  thrust  it  under  his  arm 
with  a  protecting  movement.  Teevan  stared  at  this 
with  an  air  of  fine  disdain,  but  did  not  speak. 

The  woman  had  been  waiting  for  his  words  with 
parted  lips.  Now  she  breathed  a  long,  trembling  sigh 
of  relief  and  turned  to  Ewing. 

"You  see,  he  has  nothing  to  say.       Let  us  go." 

He  opened  the  door  for  her  and  closed  it  after  them 
without  looking  again  at  Teevan. 

"There's  a  reason  why  I  can't  do  it  for  you  now," 
he  said,  as  they  went  down  the  stairs.  She  wondered 
what  he  could  mean,  but  was  too  little  alive  to  ask. 
When  they  reached  the  street  she  became  at  once 
interested  in  a  belated  laborer  going  home  with  a  loosely 
tied  bundle  over  his  shoulder,  odds  and  ends  of  small 
boards,  refuse  from  some  building.  He  whistled  in  a 
tired  way  as  he  trudged  on,  not  looking  at  them.  She 
felt  pleased  at  the  thought  that  his  wife  was  going  to 
have  wood  with  which  to  cook  the  poor  fellow's  supper. 
The  dark  was  fast  gathering,  but  children  still  romped 
in  the  street.  An  elderly  stout  man  passed,  his  hat  off, 

248 


Mrs.  Laithe  is  Enlightened 

wielding  a  palm-leaf  fan.  She  was  surprised  at  this, 
for  the  outer  air  had  fallen  on  her  with  icy  clutch, 
making  her  draw  the  scarf  more  closely  about  her. 

Ewing  would  have  left  her  at  her  door,  but  she  urged 
him  to  go  in.  She  took  him  to  sit  in  the  unlighted 
library,  and  there,  when  he  could  no  longer  see  her  face, 
he  was  astounded  to  hear  her  talk  of  her  girlhood,  her 
schooldays,  of  the  few  people  they  knew  in  common, 
of  PiersolFs  new  book,  of  her  brother's  ranch  life;  of  a 
score  of  little  gossipy  matters  that  would  occur  to  the 
untroubled  mind  in  a  twilight  chat.  But  when  he  rose 
to  go  after  a  little  time,  she  was  in  an  instant  wild  panic 
of  protest,  seizing  one  of  his  hands  with  a  convulsive 
grip.  He  covered  her  poor  hand  with  his  own  and 
regarded  her  with  pity.  She  lifted  her  face  to  him 
with  a  sudden  wild  entreaty  for  shelter.  "Oh,  stay 
with  me — stay — stay — and  comfort  me.  I  am  so  ill, 
and  I — I  would  comfort  you."  He  soothed  her  as  best 
he  could,  protesting  that  he  would  stay,  and  in  a  few 
moments  she  was  talking  cheerfully  of  Kensington  and 
of  Virginia.  She  tried  to  amuse  him  with  tales  of 
Virginia's  childhood — how  she  had  been  such  a  droll 
and  merry  little  creature.  She  still  retained  his  hand, 
gripping  it  with  an  intensity  through  which  he  could 
feel  the  quivering  of  her  whole  body. 

Only  once  did  she  refer  to  Teevan.  "Please  don't 
see  him  again,"  she  urged.  "Promise  me,  promise 
never  to  let  him  tell  you — anything.  Please,  please 
promise  that!" 

Believing  she  pleaded  for  herself,  he  felt  that  old 

longing  to  lift  her  in  his  arms  and  show  her  there  without 

words  how  little  she  had  to  fear.     But  he  controlled 

himself    to    answer    simply,    "I    promise;     I'll    never 

17  249 


Ewing's  Lady 

let  him  speak  to  me  again.  Don't  be  afraid;  he  shall 
never  say  anything  to  me." 

Her  father  came  in  presently,  grumbling  about  the 
lack  of  light  as  he  stumbled  against  a  chair.  He  let 
it  be  known  that  he  had  returned  to  the  city  in  some 
alarm  about  her,  inspired  by  a  letter  from  her  aunt. 
She  hastily  assured  him  that  she  was  well — never 
better.  But  he  demurred  at  her  remaining  longer  in 
town. 

"You'll  have  to  get  out,  daughter.  It's  beastly 
unpleasant  doing  those  slum  things  in  summer.  You 
need  life  and  gayety.  You  come  with  me  and  dance, 
play  bridge,  swim,  sail — enjoy  yourself  with  your  own 
kind  for  a  while.  You're  going  on  Tom  Neville's 
yacht  to-morrow.  He's  to  pick  us  up  about  noon  with 
Randy  Teevan." 

"Will  he  be  there?"  she  asked. 

"He  will,  and  he'll  be  one  of  a  jolly  crowd  that  will 
'liven  you  up.  Here's  Clarence — he  must  come,  too." 

Her  brother  had  felt  his  way  through  the  darkness, 
and  before  she  guessed  his  intention  he  had  found  one 
of  the  electric  lights  and  turned  it  on.  She  shrank 
back  with  a  strange,  smothered  cry,  under  the  sudden 
light,  her  hand  before  her  face  as  if  to  ward  off  invisible 
horrors,  her  eyes  staring  at  them  under  it,  wild  with 
appeal.  They  were  speechless  for  the  moment,  alarmed 
by  her  manifest  illness,  her  frightened,  haggard  face, 
in  which  the  fever  raged.  Her  brother  was  the  first 
to  speak,  going  to  her  and  taking  the  blind,  defending 
hand  she  had  put  out.  She  clung  to  him  when  she  felt 
his  touch,  but  turned  her  face  away. 

"See  here,  Nell,"  he  began,  in  tones  of  savage  decision, 
"  no  yachting  trip  for  you,  my  girl.  'Twon't  do,  gover- 

250 


Mrs.  Laithe  is  Enlightened 

nor,  you  can  see  that  for  yourself.  But  I'll  tell  you 
what  she's  going  to  do — she's  going  to  pack  up  and  go 
back  to  the  mountains  with  me  and  stay  there  till  she's 
well." 

She  still  clung  to  him,  drawing  his  arms  around  her 
with  an  effect  of  hiding. 

"Yes,  yes,  that's  it — let's  go  there — out  where 
there's  room.  It's  stifling  here.  Have  you  noticed 
how  curiously  stifling  it  is?  Too  many  people,  dead 
people  and  live  people,  and  all  hobnobbing.  We  must 
get  away,  brother." 

"You  hear  that,  dad?  She'll  go  back  with  me. 
How  soon,  Nell? — I  say,  how  soon?"  he  repeated,  for 
she  had  not  seemed  to  hear  him. 

"How  soon?"  She  raised  her  eyes  to  them  with 
sudden  intelligence,  then  sprang  wildly  to  her  feet. 

"Oh,  soon,  at  once! — Well,  not  to-night,  perhaps," 
— she  sank  back  again — "bu£  to-morrow,  next  day. 
We'll  all  go.  Mr.  Ewing  is  going."  Her  eyes  rested 
on  Ewing  a  moment,  then,  with  a  difficult  smile,  she 
turned  to  her  brother.  "And  Virgie  must  go,  too. 
Telegraph  her  to-night.  She'll  make  us  gay,  she'll 
make  us — as  we  used  to  be.  We  couldn't  go  without 
Virgie.  She  will — comfort  us." 

"She'll  go,  too,  Sis.  It's  all  right.  I'll  telegraph. 
But  what  are  you  afraid  of?  You'll  be  a  well  woman 
there  in  a  month." 

"Afraid — I  afraid?"  She  looked  up  at  him  in  won- 
der. "I  don't  know.  Oh,  yes  I  do.  Why,  I  just  tried 
to  kill— I've  just  killed— killed  a  hundred  people- 
killed " 

"  Good  Lord— there— she's  fainted !  Get  some  water 
and  a  drop  of  brandy,  dad!" 

251 


E wing's  Lady 


"Poor  child — it's  so  fearfully  unpleasant,"  murmured 
Bartell  as  he  came  back  with  a  glass  and  decanter. 
"It's  that  tenement  house  thing  that's  got  on  her 
nerves." 

"An  unpleasant  business,"  returned  his  father,  "all 
that  rot — mighty  unpleasant!" 

Bwing  waited  in  the  outer  room  until  he  heard  the 
broken  murmur  of  her  voice  and  knew  that  she  had 
recovered.  Then  he  went  quickly  out,  the  portrait 
under  his  arm.  He  had  the  feeling  that  it  had  been 
contaminated  by  Tee  van's  touch. 

He  began  dismantling  his  studio  that  night.  He  stop- 
ped in  the  work  once  to  look  out  over  the  roofs,  glowing 
luridly  under  a  half  moon.  This  was  because  the  plead- 
ing of  the  woman  still  rang  in  his  ears — "  Don't  let  him 
tell  you  anything" — and  the  whole  entreating  look  of 
her  flashed  back  to  him.  Then  the  big,  slow  tears  of 
pity  gathered  in  his  eyes  to  set  the  chimney  pots  dancing 
before  him. 

"If  only  I  hadn't  owed  him  money!"  he  muttered, 
beside  himself  with  pity  and  hatred. 

It  was  not  until  the  day  before  they  started  West 
that  Mrs.  Laithe  learned  the  secret  of  this  pity  of  Ewing's 
that  had  so  puzzled  her.  Alden  Teevan  begged  a  mo- 
ment with  her  in  the  afternoon  of  that  day,  and  she, 
sunk  in  the  languor  of  her  sickness,  received  him  where 
she  lay,  in  her  own  sitting-room. 

He  swept  her  with  a  long,  knowing  look  as  he  entered, 
reading,  she  saw,  the  truth  about  her  condition. 

"I'd  gladly  go  with  you,  Nell,"  he  began — "let  my 
own  walls  close  at  the  same  time."  But  she  would  have 
no  bald  admissions. 

"I'm  not  going,  Alden — I'm  only  a  bit  run  down. 

252 


Mrs.  Laithe  is  Enlightened 

I  shall  pick  up  in  a  month  out  there."  He  detected 
her  insincerity  but  only  smiled  in  a  hurt  way. 

"  That's  one  of  your  rules  of  the  game,  isn't  it,  to  keep 
up  the  pretense?  Of  course  I  can't  expect  you  to  break 
rules  for  me."  She  faced  him  stanchly,  looking  denial. 

"  But  I  must  tell  you  something,"  he  went  on  quickly, 
"something  horrible  and  absurd  and  unbelievable." 
She  listened,  and  grew  faint  in  an  agony  of  unbelief, 
while  he  told  her  what  had  inspired  Ewing's  behavior 
the  night  before.  She  made  him  repeat  it,  testing  each 
detail,  weighing  its  credibility  against  Ewing's  inexperi- 
ence; dazedly  trying  to  see  herself  as  he  must  see  her 
now.  Alden  Teevan  regarded  her  with  quickening 
sympathy. 

"  It  wasn't  a  pretty  thing  to  do,  Nell,  but  I  saw  he  had 
some  deviltry  afoot,  and  I  got  it  from  him — I  half 
choked  and  half  wheedled  it  from  him.  Fortunately 
he  was  drunk  or  I  couldn't  have  got  it  either  way.  But 
now  you  know.  It  began,  as  nearly  as  I  could  gather, 
one  night  last  spring  when  Ewing  saw  you  leaving  the 
house.  The  vain  little  fool  guessed  he'd  seen  you,  and 
told  him  the  tale  about  a  woman  who'd  been  harassing 
him  because  he  was  trying  to  break  off  an  affair  with 
her." 

"I  remember " 


"And  then  last  night- 


"Last  night— ah,  last  night!"  She  laughed  weakly, 
recalling  the  scene  that  had  met  Ewing's  eyes,  perceiving 
what  he  must  have  thought.  "  I'd  have  done  it  for  you," 
she  heard  him  say  again,  and  shuddered.  She  recalled, 
too,  her  own  later  urging,  "Never  let  him  tell  you  any- 
thing." How  pitiful  she  must  have  seemed  to  him,  and 
how  monstrous!  She  laughed  again  wildly,  suddenly 

253 


Ewing's  Lady 

struck  by  the  cunning  of  this  satire  on  truth.  Alden 
Teevan  recalled  her  from  the  picture. 

"It  was  like  him,  wasn't  it,  Nell? — like  both  of  them — 
like  him  to  say  it,  and  like  the  other  to  believe.  But 
the  harm  can  be  undone.  You  can  explain — a  word  or 
two." 

She  stared  at  him  in  sudden  consternation.  It  had 
flashed  upon  her  that  no  half  truth  would  satisfy  Ewing. 
She  knew  she  would  be  unequal  to  any  adequate  fiction ; 
she  would  falter  and  he  would  see  to  the  heart  of  her  lie. 
She  must  let  him  think  as  he  did — or  blacken  his  dear- 
est memory.  But  to  Alden  Teevan  she  only  said: 

"Ah,  yes — a  word  will  explain — and  I'm  so  grateful 
to  you."  She  was  wondering  then  if  she  were  glad  or 
sorry  that  he  had  told  her.  She  might  have  lived  out 
her  time  without  knowing,  she  thought. 

"Of  course,  if  you'd  like  me  to  tell  him,  Nell " 

"No,  no,  Alden,  thank  you;  but  that's  for  me." 

They  had  not  spoken  Ewing's  name,  but  his  concern 
in  the  matter,  the  meaning  of  his  faith  in  the  woman, 
was  a  matter  that  seemed  to  lie  open  to  them  both. 
Alden  Teevan  had  assumed  it  and  she  had  made  no 
denial.  His  recognition  of  it  colored  his  leave-taking. 

"  All  happiness  for  you,  Nell.  The  game  ought  to  be 
worth  playing  with  you — and  with  him.  You  both 
live  so  hard."  He  found  it  difficult  to  say  as  little, 
there  was  such  gratitude  and  such  misery  in  her  eyes 
as  they  fell  before  his,  trying  to  veil  at  least  a  part  of 
what  she  felt.  But  he  left  her  so. 

She  lay  a  long  time  trying  to  realize  Ewing  in  this  new 
light.  She  had  never  read  anything  in  his  eyes  but  the 
fullest  devotion,  and  yet  for  months  he  had  believed 
this  sinister  thing.  She  caught  again  his  young,  sorry, 

254 


Mrs.  Laithe  is  Enlightened 

protesting  look,  and  the  poignancy  of  it  brought  her 
tears.  There  came  into  the  tenderness  she  had  felt 
for  him  something  of  awe  for  his  unquestioning  alle- 
giance, a  thing  that  had  not  wavered  under  the  worst 
he  could  believe.  Then  the  monstrous  absurdity  of 
what  he  did  believe  came  upon  her  once  more  and  she 
laughed ;  but  her  tears  still  fell.  And  so,  with  laughter 
and  tears,  she  set  him  up  anew  in  her  heart,  her  beloved 
child  and  her  terrible  master.  She  was  glad  now  that 
she  knew.  It  made  him  more  to  her.  And  the  time 
would  be  so  short. 


255 


CHAPTER  XXVI 
THE  SUNSET  TRAIL 

EWING  had  looked  forward  pleasantly  to  meet- 
ing Virginia  Bartell  again,  but  it  was  a  new 
Virginia  who  met  him  with  a  nod  when  he 
joined  the  party  on  the  evening  of  the  start.  She  had 
eyes  only  for  her  sister,  the  white,  weak,  phantom  thing 
who  smiled  terribly  as  her  brother  half  carried  her  into 
the  stateroom  of  their  car.  Through  the  days  of  the 
journey  he  sought  to  cheer  her,  wistfully  making  jests 
about  the  flat  land  and  its  people  as  they  sped  through 
the  little  wooden  towns,  promising  her  a  land  that  would 
be  "busy  every  minute."  But  she  would  only  say, 
"  I'll  like  your  land  when  it  makes  sister  well." 

"It's  bound  to,"  he  assured  her.  "Nobody  dies 
there  unless  he  gets  careless.  Here,  this  is  the  way  it 
happens.  Here's  Ben  Crider's  last  letter.  You'll  like 
Ben.  Listen  to  this  and  see  if  it  doesn't  make  you 
hopeful."  He  opened  the  scrawled  sheet  and  read: 

"'Dear  Kid,  I  thought  it  about  time  to  write  you  a 
few  lines.  If  you  seen  the  lake  now  you  would  want 
to  of  been  here.  Life  and  nature  seems  very  complete 
here.  I  heard  Chet  Lynch  shot  Elmer  Watts.  I  been 
building  a  haystacker  for  Pierce.  Plenty  deer  sign  around 
the  lick.  Lee  Jennings  was  killed  by  a  bucker  falling 
back  on  him.  I  can  sell  your  saddle  for  twenty-two 
dollars  to  Ben  Lefferts.  I  put  a  new  latigo  on  it.  Let 
me  know.  Say,  Kid,  I  sent  two  dollars  to  the  Mystic 

256 


The  Sunset  Trail 


Novelty  Company.  The  address  is  Lock  Box  1347. 
The  ad.  said  they  would  send  you  a  book  how  to  read 
past,  present  and  future  from  the  hand  and  a  genuine 
ten-karat  Persian  diamond  pin  set  in  solid  gold,  if  you 
sent  on  one  dollar  in  stamps  or  P.  O.  order.  Well,  the 
diamond  may  be  all  right  enough  Persian,  but  the  solid 
gold  setting  has  turned  black.  You  go  there  and  ask 
for  the  head  man  and  raise  particular — '"  He  broke 
off  the  reading. 

"You  see,  they  only  die  by  getting  shot,  or  falling 
off  a  horse." 

The  girl  shuddered  and  turned  to  him  with  a  sudden 
helpless  yielding. 

"  I  can  hardly  bear  it,"  she  said,  almost  in  a  whisper. 
"You  don't  know  what  she  is  to  me,  how  I've  loved 
her  and  loved  her  and  loved  her.  And  yet  I've  accepted 
her  as  a  matter  of  course,  a  thing  that  couldn't  be  taken 
from  me,  like  the  world  itself.  How  could  I  think  she 
might  be  like — like  those  others?  Oh,  I  never  dreamed 
I  could  lose  my  dearest — ray  dearest!" 

He  waited  a  moment,  and  at  last  said  gently,  "You 
won't  lose  your  dearest — we  won't  lose  her." 

"  Oh,  but  she's  going,  before  our  eyes." 

''Listen  to  me,  listen  now!  She's  going  to  get  well. 
She'll  be  strong  again — I  know  it.  I  say  she  can't 
die ;  but  you  must  be  sure  of  it — as  sure  as  I  am — do  you 
hear? — as  sure  as  I  am. " 

"Yes,  yes — I  will  be  sure."  She  tried  to  look  at 
him  through  her  tear-wet  lashes.  He  smiled  at  her 
confidently. 

"  If  we're  both  sure,  we  can  have  your  sister  crying 
in  a  month  because  Ben  won't  let  her  work  in  the 
garden." 

257 


Ewing's  Lady 

"Oh,  if  you  only — "  She  broke  off  to  look  at  him  in 
wondering  gratitude. 

"And  I'll  go  in  and  tell  her  so  now,"  he  added,  rising. 

"Yes,  yes,  make  her  feel  sure,  too,"  she  implored. 
She  turned  quickly  to  the  car  window,  where  twilight 
was  blurring  the  fields  to  a  far,  dreamy  horizon,  level 
and  vast.  He  stood  a  moment,  tracing  with  mental 
point  the  line  of  her  profile  under  the  boyish  cap  pinned 
to  her  yellow  hair. 

Mrs.  Laithe  lay  on  a  narrow  sofa  in  the  stateroom. 
She  had  moved  from  that  only  to  the  berth  at  night 
since  their  start,  and  had  betrayed  a  preference  for 
being  alone  in  the  little  compartment.  Bwing  had  felt, 
however,  that  she  liked  to  talk  with  him  as  evening  drew 
on.  She  had  sent  for  him  at  this  hour  the  day  before  and 
they  had  sat  together  in  the  dusk.  He  was  reassured 
by  the  cheerfulness  of  her  tone  as  she  greeted  him  now. 

"We're  flying  so  fast,"  she  said  joyously. 

"  To  make  you  well  the  sooner.  I've  just  been  telling 
Virginia  what  we'll  do  for  you  even  in  a  month.  You'll 
be  riding  and  climbing,  and  you'll  cry  because  you  can't 
fell  trees  or  rive  out  shakes,  or  something." 

"I'm  not  worrying  about  that.  It  will  come  right 
very  soon." 

"  We'll  make  it  come  right.  No  one  ever  dies  a  natural 
death  there,  you  know.  I  was  just  reading  your  sister 
a  letter  from  Ben.  Lee  Jennings  killed  breaking  a 
horse,  Elmer  Watts  shot  by  Chester  Lynch.  Of  course, 
in  a  way,  that  was  a  natural  death  for  Elmer.  He  was 
bound  to  go  that  way  sooner  or  later,  but  you're  not 
going  to  ride  a  bucker,  and  you're  not  a  gunfighter.  Oh, 
you'll  thrive,  with  a  little  stall  feeding." 

"And  there's  so  much  room  out  there."     She  smiled. 

258 


The  Sunset  Trail 


"So  much  room  to — to  live.  And  life  is  so  full.  I  like 
to  hear  it,  through  Virgie  and  through  you.  You  are 
shells  that  give  me  the  roar  of  it." 

He  was  sensitive  to  some  pathos  of  aloofness  which 
her  whole  being  expressed  for  him,  and  he  strove  to  meet 
this  with  pictures  of  herself  returning,  a  well  woman; 
but  she  turned  her  face  from  him  at  length,  and  did  not 
speak  for  so  long  that  he  thought  she  might  be  sleeping. 
He  went  carefully  out,  with  a  last  enveloping  look. 

When  he  had  gone  the  woman  laughed  in  a  helpless, 
shuddering  way,  then  raised  herself  far  enough  toward 
the  window  to  see  the  fields  rushing  by  outside.  There 
was  timidity  in  her  look  until  she  had  seen  a  mile  of  that 
relentless  earth  rush  back  and  away  from  her.  She 
seemed  to  need  this  assurance  that  she  was  going  away 
from  the  trouble  in  the  crude,  literal  sense  of  earthly 
distance — going  off  where  there  was  room  "to live,"  she 
had  told  Ewing;  "to  die,"  she  had  amended  the  phrase 
to  herself.  For  death  was  now  a  solace  she  faced.  She 
who  had  been  so  hot  for  the  fight,  so  avid  of  life,  had 
been  cheated  of  a  combatant's  privileges.  She  could 
not  tell  Ewing  the  truth,  and  she  could  not  live  while 
he  believed  the  lie.  It  was  well,  she  thought,  to  know 
that  she  had  only  to  let  herself  float  down  that  placid 
current  of  the  white  death.  She  was  amazed  at  her 
own  calmness  and  tested  it  in  all  subtle  ways,  making 
sure  of  its  foundations.  She  could  find  no  weak  spot. 
She  craved  only  a  moderate  speed  in  the  descent.  Too 
long  a  wait  would  be  wearisome,  and  the  wise  man  had 
assured  her  against  that.  Yet  she  felt  that  she  had  the 
right  to  be  a  little  glad  when  her  brother  told  her  the 
next  day  of  a  change  in  the  plan. 

"  It  will  be  better  for  you  and  Virgie  to  go  to  Ewing's 

259 


Ewing's  Lady 

place,  Nell.  It's  always  quiet  there,  and  my  place  is 
pretty  busy  and  noisy.  I'll  manage  to  stay  over  there 
with  you  a  good  deal,  and  we'll  get  a  woman  to  come  and 
do  for  you — I  know  one  that  will  be  glad  to  come.  It 
will  only  be  for  a  little  while,  you  know." 

She  smiled  at  that  well-worn  fiction,  but  applauded 
the  plan. 

"  I  shall  like  it,  dear,  and  Virgie  will,  too,  I'm  sure,  if 
you  think  it  best,  and  if  Mr.  Bwing " 

"Ewing  suggested  it,  and  he  didn't  waste  any  words 
telling  what  a  good  plan  he  thought  it  was.  We'll  have 
some  extra  things  brought  up  from  Pagosa  to  make  you 
comfortable,  and  you  can  have  a  bully  long  rest  there." 

"A  long  rest,  yes — and  let  us  have  a  piano.  I'd  like 
to  hear  some  music  while  I'm  resting." 

"Sure!  we'll  have  one  up  from  Durango.  You 
might  need  to  stay  there  until — well — into  the  winter, 
you  know." 

"I  think  so,  Clarence."  She  was  tempted  sometimes 
to  confide  to  him  the  truth  about  her  sickness,  but 
refrained. 

"  Well,  it  won't  be  very  long.     All  you  want  is  a  rest." 

Her  mind  echoed  it  when  he  had  gone.  Yes,  a  rest. 
She  looked  up  at  Virginia,  who  had  entered  softly. 
Her  face  still  shone  with  the  thought  of  rest  and  release, 
and  she  smiled  up  at  the  girl,  who  had  laid  a  cool  hand 
on  her  flushing  cheek,  and  now  regarded  her  with  devour- 
ing eyes.  She  stood  so  a  moment,  then  knelt  to  peer 
at  the  wasted  face.  She  looked  a  long  time  without 
speaking,  looked  shrewdly  and,  at  last,  accusingly. 

"What  is  it,  dearest?  I  saw  it  in  your  face  yesterday. 
What  is  it  I  see?  Something  has  frightened  you — 
beaten  you." 

260 


The  Sunset  Trail 


The  other  smiled  protestingly,  chidingly,  with  a 
raised  finger;  but  the  girl  was  not  to  be  appeased. 

"You  won't  tell  me,  Nell;  I  know  you;  you'll  keep  it 
in.  But,  oh,  dearest!"  She  suddenly  gathered  the  sick 
woman  into  her  strong  young  arms,  raising  her  head  from 
the  pillow,  holding  the  fevered  face  to  her  breast,  press- 
ing her  own  cool  cheek  to  the  hot  brow. 

"  Dearest  dear,  let  me  in.  Trust  me.  Tell  me  where 
it  hurts.  Let  me  mother  you." 

"There,  there,  dear!  Everything  is  all  right.  Lay 
me  down  again  and  be  easy  in  that  mind  of  yours." 

But  once  more  on  the  pillow  she  had  to  endure  again 
the  girl's  accusing  eyes. 

"Nell,  some  one  hasn't  loved  you  enough.  That's 
what  I  feel.  Who  is  it?" 

"Nonsense!  You're  only  worried  because  I'm  a 
little  run  down.  Everyone  loves  me  enough — all  I 
deserve.  There,  dear,  I  think  I  can  rest."  The  girl 
kissed  her  shut  eyes,  and  went  out,  after  a  long,  doubting 
look.  The  sick  woman  raised  her  arms  once,  like  a 
child  who  would  be  taken,  but  they  fell  back,  and  she 
painfully  laughed  the  old  low  laugh  of  secrecy. 

She  mused  on  her  brother's  words.  "A  little  rest." 
Yes,  a  rest.  "Yet  a  little  sleep,  a  little  slumber,  a 
little  folding  of  the  hands  to  sleep."  She  remembered 
now  that  it  would  come  to  her  in  the  shelter  of  those 
hills,  perhaps  in  that  room  to  which  her  thoughts  had 
flown  so  many  times,  where  she  had  seen  the  awakening 
man  in  the  sleeping  boy,  and  caught  misty  shadowings 
of  the  portent  he  bore  for  her.  Her  eyes  might  fall 
before  his  now,  but  they  need  not  fall  before  the  eyes  of 
his  mother. 


261 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

THE   HILLS  OF  REST 

BEN    CRIDER    waited   for   them  on  the  station 
platform    at    Pagosa.      He    was   excited   to   a 
point  of  feverish  unrest  until  the  train  warned 
its  way  out  of  the  last  canon.     Then,  by  a  masterful 
effort,  he  became  elaborately  nonchalant.     That  train 
had  brought  Ewing  back  to  him,  but  he  constrained 
himself  to  handle  the  occasion  as  one  rising  hardly  to 
common  levels.     He  would  have  considered  any  other 
demeanor  "shameless." 

He  nodded  to  Bartell,  who  supported  his  sister  from 
the  car,  and  stared  politely  at  the  pretty  but  anxious- 
looking  girl  who  followed  them.  But  when  Ewing  ap- 
peared, burdened  with  handbags,  Ben  ignored  him, 
and  rushed  to  shake  the  hand  of  Beulah  Pierce,  return- 
ing from  a  three-days'  trip  to  Durango.  So  effusive 
was  his  greeting  that  Pierce  mentally  convicted  him  of 
having  lingered  at  the  "Happy  Days"  bar  for  one  too 
many  drinks,  and  broke  from  his  affectionate  grasp 
with  some  embarrassment. 

Ben  strolled  forward  to  the  baggage  car,  humming 
lightly,  and,  with  the  bored  air  of  a  man  creating  diver- 
sion for  himself,  laid  listless  hands  on  the  trunks  as  they 
were  unloaded.  He  was  whirling  one  of  the  heaviest 
of  these  to  the  waiting  wagon  when  Ewing  fell  on  him 
with  a  glad  shout.  Ben  paused  briefly,  balancing  the 

262 


The  Hills  of  Rest 


trunk  on  a  corner,  glanced  up  with  moderate  surprise, 
and  spoke  his  welcome. 

"Oh,  that  you,  Kid?  Howdy!"  He  resumed  his 
struggle  with  the  trunk,  blind  to  the  other's  outstretched 
hand,  and  when  Ewing  thereupon  hissed  at  him,  "  You 
damned  Mexican  sheep  herder!"  he  allowed  pleasure 
to  show  but  faintly  in  his  face.  But  when  he  was 
seized  by  the  collar,  hurled  half  across  the  platform, 
and  slammed  brutally  against  the  wall  of  the  station, 
he  protested  with  pleased  annoyance  as  he  picked  up 
his  hat,  "Aw,  quit  yer  foolin',  now,  Kid!  I  got  to 
hustle  them  trunks."  He  was  sufficiently  refreshed 
by  the  attack,  however,  to  sing  to  himself  as  he  labored. 
And  when  the -start  was  made  he  insisted  that  Ewing 
should  drive.  Ben  sat  in  the  rear  seat.  He  wanted  to 
look  at  E wing's  back  for  five  hours. 

The  sick  woman,  in  another  and  easier  conveyance, 
rejoiced  that  she  was  going  still  farther  into  the  peace 
of  her  last  refuge.  As  they  left  the  brown-floored  valley 
and  began  to  climb  the  mountain  road,  she  was  glad 
that  the  green  walls  closed  in  behind  them ;  glad  of  every 
difficult  ascent;  every  stream  forded;  every  confusing 
turn  of  the  way.  She  was  hiding  herself,  cunningly 
insuring  the  peace  of  her  last  hours. 

She  was  troubled  now  only  by  Virginia,  who  hung  upon 
her  with  an  agonized  solicitude.  But  she  promised 
herself  to  wear  this  down  by  her  own  cheerfulness  and 
expressed  certainty.  Virginia  would  see  her  peaceful, 
hopeful,  happy;  she  would  become  used  to  the  idea  of 
her  wasting;  and  the  actual  going  out  would  come 
gently  to  her  as  something  fit  and  benign.  Life  so 
abounding  as  Virginia's  could  not  long  droop  under  the 
shadow  of  death. 

263 


Ewing's  Lady 

Made  at  home  in  the  lake  cabin,  she  still  felt  the 
world  rushing  back  from  her  as  had  the  fields  rushed 
by  when  she  looked  from  the  car  window.  And  she 
rested  in  this.  Affairs  went  on  about  her,  plans  were 
made,  talk  of  the  future  or  of  the  day;  all  went  by  her 
unheeded,  save  for  a  blurred  and  pleasant  effect  of 
swiftness.  Outwardly  she  was  serene,  languorous, 
incuriously  placid.  Inwardly  she  thrilled  with  a  luxury 
of  inertness.  She  had  loosed  herself  in  the  ebbing 
tide,  and  she  folded  her  hands  and  smiled  from  this 
with  the  assured  indolence  of  one  who  knows  that 
some  earned  reward  will  not  long  be  delayed.  The 
slow-paced  even  life  was  a  balm  to  her,  the  gathering 
about  the  table  at  mealtimes,  the  evenings  in  the  studio, 
when  her  sister  played  or  talked  with  Ewing;  when 
she  could  lie  still  on  the  couch  and  try  to  make  herself 
forgotten,  regretting  only  the  short  dry  cough  that 
racked  her  night  and  morning  and  brought  her  to  the 
minds  of  the  others. 

She  had  thought  that  she  could  adjust  herself,  after 
a  little,  to  the  new  look  in  Ewing's  eyes,  knowing  as  she 
did  its  secret  spring.  It  was  a  look  of  blind  acceptance, 
of  unquestioning  adoration — and  mingled  with  it  was 
a  maddening  pity.  But  there  flashed  from  him,  too, 
at  times,  a  look  of  purpose  and  assurance,  steady,  secret, 
determined.  She  detected  this  chiefly  when  he  glanced 
up  to  her  from  his  drawing.  He  had  brought  with  him 
a  story  to  illustrate  for  the  Knickerbocker,  and  he  was, 
at  last,  to  finish  that  series  of  Western  scenes  for  the 
same  periodical.  And  he  had  flown  to  this  work  with 
a  frantic  haste,  with  the  look,  as  he  bent  over  the  board, 
that  seemed  to  say:  "This  is  for  you.  Be  patient 
with  me,  it  will  soon  be  done." 

264 


The  Hills  of  Rest 


When  the  work  did  not  claim  him  he  stayed  by  her 
side,  watchful  for  service,  jealous  of  Virginia  for  little 
acts  he  might  not  himself  perform.  His  eyes  seldom 
left  her,  she  thought,  though  she  could  not  long  endure 
their  look,  and  she  knew  that  he  read  this  evasion  of 
hers  in  the  light  of  what  Teevan  had  told  him.  Through 
all  his  devotion  there  was  a  gentle  aloofness,  a  constant 
withdrawing,  as  if  he  knew  that  he  must  never  come 
close. 

She  had  laughter  and  tears  again  for  this  when  she 
was  alone,  though  there  were  times  when,  in  her  weak- 
ness, her  wild  craving  for  the  fullness  of  what  she  might 
not  have,  she  would  have  told  it  all  in  one  surrendering 
cry  to  him  but  for  the  eyes  of  Kitty  Teevan.  They 
were  always  upon  her  now — Ewing  had  hung  the  por- 
trait in  the  studio — holding  her  with  passionate  entreaty, 
the  mother  pleading  for  herself  in  the  son's  memory. 
She  could  never  tell  him,  she  knew,  under  those  eyes. 
She  must  live  out  her  few  days  in  content  with  that 
wondrous  thing  his  own  eyes  revealed  for  her.  She 
thought  it  comic  and  tragic  and  beautiful.  One  night 
she  dreamed  that  she  was  not  to  die,  and  woke  in  horror 
of  what  his  belief  would  then  mean.  But  morning 
restored  her  serenity,  and  she  reposed  placidly  again 
on  the  unquestioned  sureness  of  her  going. 

Best  of  all  times  she  liked  the  late  morning  and  mid- 
day, when  she  could  be  alone  in  the  sun- heated  nook 
out  of  doors  and  give  her  body  to  the  warmth.  She 
knew  it  was  a  primal,  sensuous  pleasure,  but  she  sur- 
rendered to  it;  turned  and  bathed  writhingly  in  the 
sun  flood,  feeling  herself  transparent  to  it.  And  the 
pleasure  had  its  reverse  side.  Autumn  came  presently 
in  these  upper  reaches;  a  less  splendid  autumn  than 
18  265 


Ewing's  Lady 


would  set  the  Eastern  woods  ablaze  with  flaunts  of  gold 
and  scarlet,  but  an  autumn  more  eloquent  of  death, 
the  faded  yellow  of  the  aspen  groves,  broken  but  rarely 
by  some  flaming  shrub  that  only  emphasized  the  mono- 
tone. This,  the  unending,  lifeless  yellow,  and  the 
dead  green  of  spruce  and  hemlock — a  false  green,  she 
felt,  with  its  tale  of  ever-living — made  a  coloring  of 
nice  symbolism  for  her  state. 

Had  she  felt  the  need  of  a  death's  head  at  her  sun 
feast,  this  neutral,  denying  flatness  would  have  sufficed. 
The  end  had  come  home  to  her.  It  was  her  unseen 
familiar,  voiceless,  but  ever  present,  with  a  look  unhurry- 
ing  but  constant. 

And  there  were  the  mountains  themselves,  things 
that  had  once  leaped  alive  and  tortured  themselves 
into  frenzied  furies  of  striving  only  to  be  stricken  and 
left  at  last  in  all  the  broken  tossing  of  their  folly.  They 
had  tried  the  fighting  death,  and  it  had  availed  only 
to  fix  their  last  agonies.  Their  scarred  hulks  testified 
to  the  wisdom  of  submission. 

Yet  her  mind  was  normal  in  these  sun-warmed  hours 
of  musing.  She  knew  that  those  dead  hills  with  their 
dying  leafage  told  another  tale  to  the  pair  of  young 
lives  housed  with  her.  To  them  they  were  but  inspira- 
tions to  life  vital  and  triumphant;  eminences  to  be 
scaled  in  joyous  effort,  offering  to  youth's  dreaming, 
half -true  clairvoyance,  unending  reaches  to  provoke; 
near  enough  to  seem  attainable;  far  enough  to  be 
plausible  with  promise  of  delights. 

Nor  did  she  fail  to  rejoice  in  the  fervor  of  this  fresh 
view  so  unlike  her  own.  She  was  conscious  of  its  truth 
to  untouched  souls  like  theirs,  and  she  sought  to  throw 
them  together,  urging  them  to  excursions  through  the 

266 


The  Hills  of  Rest 


hills.  She  thought  of  them  at  first  as  her  pair  whom 
she  had  set  in  a  garden  where  the  fruit  of  no  tree  was 
forbidden. 

She  coolly  studied  Ewing  on  the  days  when  he  worked 
indoors,  detaching  herself  from  his  life  as  one  about  to 
go  on  a  long  journey.  From  her  shadowed  couch  she 
scanned  his  face  as  he  bent  over  the  drawing  board. 
It  had  filled  in  the  year  since  she  first  saw  it,  and  was 
an  older  face,  the  strength  of  it  more  conscious,  the 
promise  of  it  almost  kept  in  its  well-controlled,  level- 
eyed  maturity.  Much  of  the  boy  remained  to  flash 
out,  but  she  saw  that  this  would  never  go ;  that  it  would 
kindle  his  eyes  when  the  brown  hair  had  gone  white. 
It  was  this  eternal  boyishness,  she  saw,  that  made  him 
quick  of  response  to  another's  interest;  this  that  had 
made  him  seem  too  ductile  under  Teevan's  manipulation, 
when  in  truth  he  had  merely  been  loath  to  hurt,  fearing 
nothing  so  much  as  another's  pain.  The  forward  line 
of  the  nose  and  the  smoldering  fierceness  of  eye  should 
have  been  more  informing.  That  was  the  face,  vital, 
fearless,  patently  self-willed  for  all  its  kindly  immaturi- 
ties of  concession,  that  Teevan  had  thought  to  prevail 
over  by  his  stings  of  waspish  contempt.  She  smiled 
pityingly  for  Teevan,  until  she  recalled  that  she  also 
had  misread  its  lines.  There  were  moments  when  her 
beaten  spirit  fluttered  up  at  thought  of  Teevan's  being 
blasted  by  what  he  had  thought  to  blast.  But  a  look 
at  the  mother's  restraining  face,  or,  still  more,  a  look 
at  Ewing  as  he  would  glance  from  his  work  up  to  the 
portrait,  stilled  this  craving  for  battle.  It  was  well, 
she  thought,  as  it  had  fallen. 

Ewing  had  set  to  work  doubtingly  at  first,  but  with 
laughing  energy  when  he  found  that  the  lines  came  again 

267 


E wing's  Lady 

at  his  call.  He  felt,  indeed,  that  his  facility  had  been 
increased,  and  he  confided  this  to  Mrs.  Laithe  one  day 
as  she  lay  watching  him. 

"I  don't  have  to  'squeeze'  the  way  I  did,"  he  said. 
"Perhaps  I  really  learned  something  there  in  spite  of 
myself,  in  all  that  messing  with  colors.  I  didn't  learn 
to  paint,  but  I  seem  to  have  a  new  line  on  bucking 
bronchos  and  bucked  cowboys."  He  stopped  in  sudden 
thought. 

"There,  I've  forgotten  that  old  painting  of  mine. 
I'll  treat  us  both  to  a  look  at  it." 

He  went  off  to  Ben's  room  beyond  the  kitchen  and 
came  back  with  the  dusty  canvas.  He  wiped  it  with 
a  cloth  and  placed  it  on  the  easel. 

She  did  not  look  at  this.  She  knew  it  too  well.  Her 
look  was  for  his  face  as  he  studied  it.  She  saw  surprise 
there,  bewilderment,  incredulity,  and  then,  slowly 
dawning,  a  consternation  of  dropped  jaw  and  squint- 
ing scowl.  Yet  this  broke  at  length,  and,  to  her  great 
relief,  he  laughed,  heartily,  honestly.  She  smiled,  not 
at  the  poor  painting,  but  in  sympathy  with  him.  Then 
he  remembered  that  she  had  looked  at  this  same  canvas 
once  before,  and  that  neither  of  them  had  laughed. 
His  face  sobered,  and  he  went  over  to  her. 

"  You  had  nerve,  didn't  you — after  seeing  that  thing?  " 

"You  remember  I  didn't  praise  it." 

"But  you  saw  I  didn't  know  any  better,  and  you 
never  let  me  see  that  you  did.  You  must  have  thought 
highly  of  me,  I  can  see  that."  He  stooped  and  laid 
one  of  his  hands  on  hers  with  a  friendly,  thanking  pres- 
sure. 

"I  saw  plainly  enough  what  you  could  do,"  she 
protested. 

268 


The  Hills  of  Rest 


He  went  to  stand  again  before  the  despised  canvas, 
playing  upon  it  with  humorous  disparagement. 

"But  if  you  see  now,"  she  said,  "that  it's  so — if  it 
seems  so " 

"Say  the  word— do!" 

"  If  it  seems  bad  to  you  now,  that's  a  good  sign.  It 
means  that  you've  learned  something  about  color. 
Suppose  it  had  still  seemed  good." 

He  took  the  thing  off  the  easel. 

"If  I've  learned  as  much  about  color  as  I  think 
this  is  bad — well  there's  only  a  little  left  for  me  to 
learn." 

"Now  you  will  paint  others  that  will  seem  faultless 
at  the  time  and  bad  a  year  later.  That's  the  penalty 
of  growth,  but  it's  the  proof.  Make  your  prayer  to 
the  god  of  painting:  'May  everything  I  do  seem  bad 
when  it's  a  year  old ! ' " 

"I'll  try  to,"  he  returned  gravely.  Then,  "Let's 
put  this  out  of  sight  quick,  before  Virginia  sees  it." 

"You  didn't  burn  it,"  she  asked,  when  he  returned. 

"  I  should  think  not.  I'd  have  to  fight  Ben  if  I  burned 
that.  Of  course  I  didn't  know  any  better  when  I  gave 
it  to  him,  any  more  than  I  knew  about  his  songs.  That's 
another  thing  you  must  have  laughed  at  me  for." 

He  laughed  himself  as  she  looked  up  at  him  with 
puzzled  inquiry,  and  went  on  to  confess  how  he  had  sung 
Ben's  choicest  ballad  at  the  Monastery. 

"Of  course  it's  a  funny  song,"  he  continued,  as  he 
returned  to  the  drawing  board,  "but  it  isn't  so  very 
much  funnier  than  a  lot  that  aren't  supposed  to  be 
funny  at  all.  Come,  now,"  he  rallied  her,  "don't  they 
all  rub  in  the  sadness,  even  the  ones  you  might  think 
serious?  There  must  be  a  million  songs  about  'Dream- 

269 


Ewing's  Lady 

ing,'  'I  Dreamed  that  You  Were  with  Me,  Love!' 
and  'It  was  All  a  Dream!'  and  'Could  I  but  Recall  that 
Day!'  and  'Alas,  It  was  not  so  to  be!'  and  'Must  We, 
then,  Part  Forever!'  Always  crying  about  something! 
Always  moaning  'if  only'  something  or  other.  They're 
about  as  teary  a  lot  as  Ben's  songs.  I  told  Virginia 
last  night  I  never  wanted  to  hear  another  'Could  I  but — ' 
song;  they're  as  bad  as  'The  Fatal  Wedding.'" 

Though  he  had  rushed  at  the  drawings  with  a  power- 
ful incentive — to  make  himself  free  so  that  he  could  per- 
form one  great  service  for  his  lady — he  yielded  often  to 
the  persuasions  of  Mrs.  Laithe  and  took  Virginia  out 
for  adventures.  They  explored  box  canons  that  she 
believed  to  be  impenetrable  until  he  nonchalantly 
opened  a  way  to  their  secret  recesses.  They  whipped 
trout  streams  and  he  complacently  caught  fish  from 
holes  she  would  angle  in  without  result.  He  tried  to 
persuade  her  that  certain  brown  patches  he  professed 
to  detect  off  through  the  forest  from  time  to  time  were 
deer;  but  vainly  each  time,  until  there  would  be  a  sudden 
terrific  shattering  amid  the  underbrush,  and  perhaps 
a  fleeting  glimpse  of  the  brown  patch  with  its  white 
center,  flying  in  swift  rebuke  to  her  unbelief.  They 
climbed  hills  together,  and  he  irritated  her  by  his  con- 
tinued ease  of  breath  under  the  strain,  while  her  own 
"wind"  that  she  had  thought  so  well  of  in  Kensington 
was  exhausted  by  the  first  moments  of  effort.  She 
believed  him  guilty  of  a  polite  fiction  when  he  explained 
that  the  altitude  made  all  the  difference.  She  disbe- 
lieved his  tale  of  the  lake  water's  coldness — it  was 
annoying  to  be  told  that  even  he  wanted  no  more  than 
a  single  plunge  in  it — and  bathed  there  one  day  to  her 
undoing.  She  refused  to  believe  that  he  could  shoot 

270 


The  Hills  of  Rest 


accurately  with  a  rifle  that  made  so  much  noise,  or  with 
a  revolver  that  wobbled  when  one  tried  to  hold  it  still, 
until  he  had  demonstrated  these  matters.  And  she 
refused  to  concede  that  she  could  not  ride  a  certain 
half-broken  little  mare — which  Ewing  rode  without 
apparent  difficulty — until  the  mare  proved  it  to  the 
satisfaction  of  all  concerned. 

These  little  disbeliefs  were  not  unpleasant  to  Ewing. 
He  revenged  himself  for  having  been  proved  a  "duffer" 
at  her  own  games. 

It  was  on  their  return  from  an  afternoon's  fishing  one 
day  that  they  found  Bartell  bestowing  Cooney  on  his 
sister. 

"  I  bought  him  for  you  from  Pierce,"  he  was  explain- 
ing. "Of  course  Virgie  can  ride  him  until  you're  fit 
again." 

The  sick  woman  greeted  her  old  friend  formally  in  the 
presence  of  the  others.  But  when  they  had  gone  inside 
she  led  the  little  roan  around  to  the  corral,  and  there, 
sheltered  by  its  wall,  she  put  an  arm  tightly  over  his 
lowered  neck  and  laid  her  face  to  his  with  fond  little 
words  of  greeting  and  remembrance.  He  had  carried 
her  so  well  on  a  day  when  nothing  had  happened ;  when 
she  was  a  girl  herself,  it  almost  seemed,  more  curious 
of  the  world  than  knowing. 

That  had  been  an  age — a  year — ago.  The  little  horse 
had  been  bravely  doing  his  work,  carrying  his  inconse- 
quent burdens  as  they  listed,  while  she  had  been  losing 
herself  in  protests.  She  had  begun  doing  that,  it  seemed, 
the  first  day  he  brought  her  there.  She  wondered  if 
he  could  remember  it.  She  doubted  that;  but  at  least 
he  remembered  Ewing  and  loved  him.  She  clasped  the 
arm  more  tightly  about  his  neck,  and  the  little  horse 

271 


Ewing's  Lady 

whinnied,  pawing  the  earth  with  a  small  forefoot,  and 
moving  his  head  up  and  down  in  a  knowing  way.  To 
the  woman  he  had  the  effect  of  seeking  to  return  her 
caress,  so  that  in  a  moment  she  was  sobbing  in  a  sudden 
weakness  of  love  for  him. 


272 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

THE  WHITE  TIME 

THE  days  went,  shortening.  She  kept  to  her 
couch  through  all  but  those  hours  when  the 
sun  was  high.  Then  she  lay  to  be  warmed 
in  the  open  while  the  year  died  before  her.  She  could 
not  see  another  year.  She  must  read  all  her  meanings 
into  this  one.  September  went  and  October  waned. 
The  sky  was  often  overcast.  They  had  ceased  to  talk  of 
her  going  back.  Her  brother  reminded  her  cheerfully 
that  he  had  half  expected  a  long  stay  for  her.  She  must 
be  patient.  She  spoke  in  his  own  vein  of  hopefulness, 
promising  patience,  and  smiled  as  ever  on  her  pair, 
who  still  wandered  in  that  garden,  bantering  comrades, 
tasting  the  fruit  of  every  tree  but  one. 

And  one  day  she  knew  that  all  her  imaginings  about 
this  pair  had  been  vain,  caught  it  in  the  deepened  look 
of  Ewing  as  he  turned  from  Virginia  to  herself.  It  was 
a  thing  to  bask  in — that  look — like  the  fervid  sun  itself. 
But  it  hurt  her,  too;  made  it  harder  to  let  go  of  life. 
Yet  always  before  her  was  the  face  of  Kitty  Teevan 
with  its  beseeching  eyes:  "You  have  so  little  time  to 
live,  and  I  must  live  in  his  memory  always!"  And 
so  she  put  the  thing  away,  letting  him  think  as  he  must, 
wincing  under  his  look  of  pity,  and  that  devouring  thing 
that  lurked  always  back  of  his  pity,  and  striving  for 
lightness  when  she  talked  with  him. 

"  I  understand  why  our  land  seemed  unreal  to  you," 

273 


Ewing's  Lady 

she  said  to  him  while  they  loitered  in  the  blue  dusk  of 
the  pine  woods  near  the  cabin  one  day.  The  peaks 
beyond  were  misty  behind  gray  clouds  that  lay  sullenly 
along  the  horizon.  "  I  understand  why  you  called  our 
land  a  stage  land,  for  this  is  unreal  to  me,  painted, 
theatrical,  impossible.  I  keep  hearing  the  person  who's 
seen  the  play  telling  his  neighbor  what's  to  come  next." 

"It's  real  enough,"  he  answered,  looking  away  from 
her.  "  I  have  a  way  of  telling  when  a  land  is  real." 

"You  have?" 

"Any  land  is  real  where  you  are.  New  England  or 
Colorado  or  Siberia  or " 

"There,  there!"  she  soothed  him  mockingly — "or 
India's  coral  strand.  That's  quite  enough.  You  have 
learned  your  geography  lesson.  What  a  busy  traveler 
you  must  have  been!" 

"And  no  land  can  be  real  where  you  are  not,"  he  went 
on  gravely.  "  I  go  where  you  go,  follow  you  around  the 
world  and  out  into  the  stars  beyond  the  moon,  up  and 
down  and  on  forever,  and  it  all  seems  real  to  me — all 
except  you." 

"Oh,  I — I'm  real,  real  enough,  but  this  land  is  a  sad, 
fearful,  threatening  land,  so  heartless."  She  shivered. 
"Let  us  go  in!" 

"  That's  only  because  it's  closing  up  now  for  the  win- 
ter; that's  why  the  sky  is  sorry.  The  leaves  are  nearly 
gone,  and  the  fat  old  bears  are  slouching  down  from 
the  high  places  to  curl  up  in  the  holes,  and  the  deer 
are  moving  down  into  the  valleys,  and  pretty  soon  the 
hills  will  crawl  under  white  blankets  and  go  to  sleep. 
And  we  shall  have  to  do  the  same.  We  shall  be  shut 
in  before  you  know  it,  snowed  in,  frozen  in,  like  the  bears. 
But  the  winter — it  can't  take  you  from  me." 

274 


The  White  Time 


"There,  there!"  But  she  could  not  finish.  She 
flashed  a  helpless  smile  at  him  and  fled  indoors.  He 
went  after  her,  crying  that  winter  was  upon  them. 

And  then,  all  in  a  day  and  a  night,  winter  came. 
The  wind  fell  to  an  ominous  hush  one  midday,  and  a 
leaden  quiet  lay  over  the  hills.  Blurred  masses  of  cloud 
rose  slowly  above  the  peaks,  shaping  themselves  with 
ponderous  sloth.  Below  these  a  white  mist  formed. 
Then  one  tiny  snow  crystal  fell.  It  was  followed  pres- 
ently by  another,  and  then  by  more,  floating  down 
with  unhurried  ease.  Meaningless  wisps  they  seemed, 
fugitive  bits  of  wool,  perhaps,  from  a  sheep  losing  its 
fleece  in  some  nearby  shearing  pen.  More  of  them  came 
with  the  same  slow,  loitering  grace,  as  if  they  would  lull 
suspicion  of  the  fury  they  heralded. 

By  night  the  storm  had  shut  off  the  hills  so  that  the 
cabin  might  have  been  set  in  a  plain,  for  all  the  eye  could 
see.  The  flakes  no  longer  came  saunteringly,  but  swiftly 
now,  in  a  slant  of  honest  fervor,  frankly  threatening. 

By  morning  the  land  was  muffled  in  white  The  sun 
shone  pale  and  cold  through  the  mist,  and  the  wind 
began  a  game  with  its  new  plaything,  still  light  and  dry, 
and  quick  to  dance  to  any  piping.  Spruce  and  hemlock 
seemed  to  have  darkened  their  green,  and  their  arms 
drooped  wearily  under  the  white  burdens  they  bore. 
The  second  day's  fall  buried  their  lowest  branches  so 
that  not  even  the  circle  of  bare  earth  was  left  about 
them. 

Inside  the  cabin  they  sought  the  peace  of  the  earth 
under  its  cover,  the  trustful  repose  of  the  live  things 
sleeping  there.  The  days  sped  by  almost  unmarked. 
Scarcely  ever  were  they  certain  of  the  day  of  week  or 
month,  especially  after  Ben  forgot  to  mark  his  calendar 

275 


Ewing's  Lady 

on  the  days  he  and  Ewing  devoted  to  getting  deer  for 
their  winter's  meat.  There  were  but  opinions  as  to  the 
date  after  that. 

Ben,  after  his  work  with  the  stock  each  morning, 
hibernated  gracefully  in  a  chair  by  the  kitchen  stove, 
sleeping  with  excited  groans,  like  a  dreaming  dog.  Or, 
awake,  he  stared  at  the  wall  with  dulled  eyes.  At 
times  he  would  touch  his  guitar  to  life  and  sing  very 
softly,  or  hold  it  affectionately  in  his  lap,  a  hand  muting 
its  strings,  while  he  pondered  dreamily  of  far-off  matters, 
of  cities  and  men,  and  the  folly  of  expecting  ever  to 
receive  treasure  such  as  the  advertisements  promise. 

Ewing  and  Virginia,  after  the  snow  packed,  went 
forth  on  snowshoes  far  into  the  white  silence;  over  open 
spaces  so  glaring  that  the  eyes  closed  in  defense ;  through 
ravines  where  once-noisy  streams  were  stilled ;  and  under 
forest  arches  of  green  where  the  snow  was  darkened  to 
hints  of  blue — they  agreed  that  Sydenham  would  paint 
it  blue  without  condescending  to  hints — and  where  the 
hush  was  so  intense  that  they  instinctively  lowered 
their  voices.  They  passed  long  times  without  speech, 
as  they  would  have  done  in  a  church,  worshiping  the 
still  beauty  about  them,  beauty  of  buttressed  peak,  of 
snow-choked  canon,  of  green-roofed  cathedral,  of  pink 
light  at  sunset  on  endless  snow-quilted  slopes. 

Mrs.  Laithe,  too,  sought  the  open  when  the  sun  was 
high,  and  one  day  in  midwinter  she  walked  as  far  as 
the  lake  in  the  path  beaten  by  the  stock.  It  did  not 
occur  to  her  then  that  this  was  no  feat  for  a  dying  woman 
nor  even  on  the  succeeding  days  when  this  walk  became 
her  habit.  It  was  a  change  for  her  eyes  from  the  cabin 
prospect;  the  sun  warmed  her  genially,  despite  the 
intense  cold,  and  she  liked  the  stillness,  all  the  move- 

276 


The  White  Time 


ments  of  life  going  on  in  a  strange,  muffled  silence. 
This  helped  her  to  remember  her  own  plight.  Life 
still  abounded  with  all  its  warmth  and  glad  clashing, 
but  she  must  have  only  eyes  for  it — no  heart  of  desire. 
She  had  been  so  sure  of  this  from  the  first  that  she  gave 
but  heedless  smiles  to  the  others  when  they  told  her 
she  was  better.  They  had  always  said  such  things. 

She  slept  the  long  nights  through  now,  seeking  bed 
like  a  tired  child,  and  waking  in  strange  refreshment. 
And  milk  no  longer  appeased  her  hunger  as  it  had  wholly 
done  when  she  arrived.  The  savor  of  baked  meats  was 
now  sweet  to  her.  She  was  presently  walking  to  the 
lake  both  morning  and  afternoon,  breathing  deep  of 
the  dry  air  that  ran  fire  in  her  veins  as  she  absorbed  it. 
And  the  flush  on  her  face  when  she  returned  was  not  that 
of  fever. 

But  more  eloquent  than  these  physical  symptoms  was 
a  sullen  current  of  rebellion  rising  slowly  within  her, 
the  old  fighting  instinct,  a  lust  for  sheer  living,  a  thing 
she  had  believed  was  long  since  extinct. 

She  did  not  lose  her  certainty  of  death  all  in  a  day. 
For  weeks  she  was  haunted  merely  by  an  unquiet  sus- 
picion. The  cough  still  racked  her  night  and  morning, 
and  the  fever  came  each  evening,  but  the  old  potency 
seemed  to  have  gone  from  both.  She  tried  to  believe 
at  first  that  this  was  one  of  those  false  rallies  so  common 
before  the  end. 

The  full,  maddening  realization  came  to  her  on  a  day 
when  Ewing  walked  with  her  to  the  lake.  He  turned 
on  her  suddenly  when  they  had  mounted  a  slope,  seized 
both  her  hands,  and  looked  long  into  her  eyes  with  a 
certain  grave  wonder. 

"You  are  made  new,"  he  said  at  last.     She  trembled 

277 


Ewing's  Lady 

in  a  sudden  panic,  divining  the  truth  of  it,  feeling,  as  he 
spoke,  a  great  rush  of  life  overwhelming  her. 

"  You  are  living  again,  you  are  going  to  live.  I  knew 
you  would  live."  He  still  gripped  her  hands.  It  was 
as  if  he  had  drawn  her,  warm  and  pulsing,  out  of  all  the 
wintry  death  about  them.  She  could  not  face  him, 
but  released  her  hands  and  turned  away.  He  had  seen 
truly.  She  had  relaxed  utterly  when  she  came,  to  waver 
unresistingly  down  into  the  cool  abyss  of  her  despair. 
But  some  indomitable  brute  thing  had  risen  in  her  while 
she  slept,  to  fight  for  life,  and  to  fire  her  whole  being  with 
its  triumph.  While  she  had  rested  and  waited  in  that 
luxury  of  self-abandonment  she  had  been  cheated  of  her 
victory — betrayed  back  to  life. 

Trying  now  to  think  what  life  would  mean  to  her, 
she  was  overwhelmed  with  shame  and  dismay.  With 
death  so  near  things  had  been  simple.  But  how  could 
she  live  on  and  face  Ewing,  shaming  herself  and  shaming 
him  in  the  darkness  of  his  belief  about  her? 

They  walked  back  to  the  cabin  in  silence.  Ewing,  too, 
she  felt,  saw  the  future  to  be  less  simple  now. 

"  I  shall  know  what  to  do,"  he  said,  as  they  reached  the 
door;  and  there  was  again  in  his  eyes  that  puzzling 
look  of  some  fixed  purpose.  For  the  first  time  this 
vaguely  alarmed  her  now,  and  she  questioned  him  swiftly 
with  her  eyes.  But  he  only  pointed  to  his  mother's 
portrait — they  had  entered  the  studio — and  said, 
"  Do  you  think  I'd  do  less  for  you  than  I  would  for  her? " 

She  could  endure  neither  his  own  look  nor  the  mother's, 
and  fled  to  her  room.  There  she  studied  her  face  in  the 
glass.  It  was  all  true.  She  was  going  to  live,  and  she 
sickened  at  the  thought.  Again  it  was  a  time  for  tears 
and  laughter. 

278 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

THE   AWAKENING 

THE  white  giant,  sun-stricken,  drooping  lan- 
guidly, crumbled  and  dissolved  before  their 
eyes.  The  air  softened.  The  streams  rushed 
full,  the  southern  hillsides  showed  bare  and  gaunt. 

In  the  lake  cabin  they  felt  aged  by  their  imprison- 
ment. It  had  been  so  long,  so  remote  from  the  world 
rush.  L,ike  prisoners  long  confined,  they  were  loath 
to  leave  a  dungeon  where  life  had  been  well  ordered  if 
not  exhilarating.  Benumbed  in  the  first  days  of  the 
change,  they  returned  indoors  to  the  soothing  evenness 
of  their  six  months'  hibernation.  They  found  those 
first  changes  unbelievable.  Winter  would  surely  go  on 
forever;  too  mighty  a  jailer  it  was  to  be  vanquished 
by  a  mere  breath  of  honey  and  flowers.  They  stayed 
in  to  warn  one  another  against  false  appearances. 

But  there  came  a  day  when,  in  the  blaze  of  noontime, 
Ben  Crider  moved  his  chair  out  by  the  door  and  sang 
softly  to  the  strains  of  his  guitar.  His  eyes  blinked  in 
the  sunlight  as  he  sang,  yet  they  did  not  fail  to  detect 
the  signs  of  spring  so  plentiful  about  the  clearing  in 
bud  and  leaf  and  tiny  grass  shoot,  even  though  patches 
of  snow  still  lay  in  the  shaded  spots. 

The  woman  who  cooked  came  also  to  the  door  as 
Ben  sang.  He  had  spoken  of  her  the  winter  through 
as  "the  woman,"  dimly  perceiving  her  as  a  spirit  that 
mumbled  endless  complainings  as  she  toiled,  for  she 

279 


Ewing's  Lady 

was  one  who  had  been  disillusioned  by  much  cooking. 
She  cooked  acceptably,  and  Ben  had  burgeoned  in  the 
uncanny  luxury  of  food  prepared  by  another  hand  than 
his  own,  but  he  had  given  her  little  attention  beyond 
discovering  her  opinion  that  cooking  was  a  barren  per- 
formance, since  people  perversely  ate  and  thereby 
destroyed,  and  the  thing  must  be  done  again  endlessly. 
He  had  vaguely  observed  that  this  woman  was  not 
beautiful,  and  now,  as  she  faced  him  with  a  sudden 
joviality  in  the  spring  sunshine,  he  saw  that  she  could 
never  have  been  beautiful.  She  beamed  amicably  on 
the  balladist,  and  he,  turning  casual  eyes  on  her,  was 
stricken  to  dismayed  silence ;  the  tuneful  praise  of  young 
love  fainted  on  his  lips  as  he  stared,  aghast,  and  his 
startled  hand  hushed  the  vibrant  strings.  A  moment 
he  looked,  recovering  from  the  shock.  Then,  in  swift 
recoil,  he  grasped  his  chair  and  went  resolutely  out 
under  the  big  hemlock,  there  to  resume  his  song  and 
his  absent  contemplation  of  Nature's  awakening — 
his  back  to  the  cabin  door.  In  this  sensitive  mood 
he  wished  not  to  incur  again  a  vision  that  blighted 
song. 

It  was  no  longer  disputable  that  spring  was  real;  no 
baseless  tradition,  but  an  unfolding  reality.  Ben  had 
divined  it,  and  the  other  prisoners  were  not  long  in 
proving  it. 

One  of  them  surveyed  it  in  panic  wonder,  turning  in 
upon  herself  to  face  the  ordeal  of  enforced  living.  They 
wandered  in  the  open,  three  of  them,  now,  finding 
it  good  to  feel  the  bare,  elastic  earth  under  their  feet 
again,  and  prove  the  noiseless  but  sensational  life  of 
growing  things  all  about  them.  They  plucked  buds 
to  see  their  secret  hearts,  and  exposed  the  roots  of 

280 


The  Awakening 


peeping  herbs  that  had  begun  their  strivings  before  the 
snow  went. 

When  the  sunny  places  had  been  dried  and  warmed, 
and  were  pulsing  in  their  myriad  hidden  hearts,  so 
that  winter  began  to  fade  in  their  minds  as  some  dream 
of  night,  they  would  penetrate  the  sunless  depths  of  a 
narrow  canon  where  the  snow  yet  lay  deep  and  the 
stream  was  a  mere  choking  of  ice  in  a  gorge. 

It  was  in  the  flush  of  this  exultation  over  winter's 
downfall  that  they  planned  camp  life  in  a  vale  at  the  edge 
of  the  lake,  where  the  spruces  thinned  to  leave  wide- 
vaulted  arches,  and  spread  the  floor  with  yielding  brown 
rugs  of  the  pine  needle.  They  began  it  as  a  play,  and 
finished  with  a  permanent  camp  into  which  they  moved 
from  the  cabin.  There  were  tents  and  beds,  a  table, 
a  sheet-iron  stove,  chests  for  their  stores,  and  hammocks 
in  which  to  be  fanned  by  the  south  wind. 

Bartell  promised  his  sister  vast  benefits  from  this 
life. 

"This  will  put  the  finishing  touches  to  you,  Sis.  A 
month  here  and  you'll  be  loping  over  the  range,  high, 
wide,  and  handsome.  It'll  take  an  elk-high  fence  to 
hold  you  after  you've  slept  awhile  out  here." 

She  felt  the  truth  of  what  he  said,  and  was  appalled 
by  it.  Almost  daily  she  dismayed  herself  by  recalling 
some  unpremeditated  feat  of  strength  or  endurance. 
Life  had  crept  back  to  her  like  a  whipped  dog,  and 
bitterly  she  felt  the  sting  of  its  satire.  She  was  loath 
to  leave  the  cabin  in  which  she  had  so  long  nursed  death. 
She  had  impregnated  the  very  walls  with  an  atmosphere 
of  dissolution.  But  she  understood  now  that  that 
prison  house  could  no  longer  suffice  her.  Stubborn 
life  had  prevailed  over  all  its  powers  of  suggestion. 
19  281 


Ewing's  Lady 


There  she  had  clung  stubbornly  to  the  old  solution, 
cherishing  a  hope  of  some  sudden  relapse,  despite  the 
new  life  that  taunted  her  with  its  animal  buoyance. 
But  once  in  the  open,  her  brain  was  washed  of  that. 
Her  mind  was  as  clear  as  the  fathomless  blue  above 
them  at  noon;  and  the  stars  at  night  were  not  more 
coldly  luminous  than  the  reasoning  she  bent  upon  her- 
self, nor  sharper  than  a  certain  deduction  she  made. 

Ewing  brought  his  drawing  to  the  camp  and  spent  the 
mornings  in  work.  He  had  finished  his  series  for  the 
Knickerbocker  during  the  winter,  and  these  drawings, 
with  the  illustrations  for  the  story  previously  made, 
had  brought  him  enough  to  discharge  the  Teevan  debt. 
He  had  reported  this  transaction  significantly  to  Mrs. 
Laithe,  and  was  now  busy  on  pictures  for  another  story 
for  the  Knickerbocker. 

"Only  a  little  longer,"  he  said,  with  a  meaning  she 
could  not  fathom,  and  he  returned  to  his  work  with  a 
singular  absorption.  Not  even  Ben  could  distract 
him  when  he  sauntered  up  for  his  daily  criticism.  Ben 
was  respectful  to  the  drawings  after  he  saw  the  checks 
they  brought,  but  his  summing  up  of  the  purchaser's 
acumen  never  varied. 

"Well,  well — fools  and  their  money!  The  idee  of 
payin'  out  cash  for  a  thing  that  looks  as  much  like  Red 
Phinney  as  that  there  does!" 

When  work  was  done  for  the  day  Ewing  would  turn 
to  Mrs.  Laithe  with  a  smile  of  release,  and  they  would 
stray  along  some  dim  trail  or  off  into  pathless,  shaded 
silences  of  the  wood,  lingering  in  grassy  mountain 
meadows,  or  skirting  the  base  of  bleak  crags  where 
streaks  of  snow  in  shadow  still  clung  to  the  gray  walls. 
She  was  conscious  then  of  a  tumult  throbbing  wonder- 

282 


The  Awakening 


fully  beneath  the  surface  of  their  companionship — a 
tumult  of  life  aching  for  release.  In  little  chance  mo- 
ments of  silence  this  rumbled  ominously,  leaving  her 
fearful,  but  curiously  resigned,  moved  to  blind  flight, 
yet  chained  and  submissive  as  were  the  hills  themselves. 

One  afternoon  they  sought  their  canon  of  delayed 
winter  after  many  days'  neglect  of  it.  They  wondered 
if  spring  might  not  have  reached  even  that  secret  recess 
at  last.  They  left  the  trail  that  skirted  the  edge  and 
descended  a  rocky  way  that  Ewing  found,  emerging 
at  last  through  a  fringe  of  the  stunted  cedars  into  the 
gloom  of  the  depths. 

At  first  glance  this  last  stronghold  of  winter  seemed 
to  have  remained  impregnable.  Snow  lay  deep  along 
the  bottom,  enormous  stalactites  of  ice  depended  from 
overhanging  ledges,  and  the  stream  itself  appeared 
to  be  still  only  a  riven  glacier.  But,  listening  intently, 
they  heard  a  steady  liquid  murmur,  the  very  music 
of  spring  come  at  last  to  sing  the  gorge  awake.  As 
they  stood,  listening,  there  was  a  shivering  crash;  one 
of  the  huge  icicles  had  dropped,  shattering  on  a  lower 
ledge  and  raining  its  fragments  into  the  soft  snowbed 
below. 

"It's  the  very  last  of  winter,"  said  Ewing  mourn- 
fully. "  That  snow  is  eaten  through  and  through.  See 
how  those  bits  of  ice  drove  into  it.  And  hear  that  run- 
ning water.  It  will  be  off  with  a  rush  now.  It's  the 
very  last  of  it — all  I  shall  have  to  look  back  to — that 
winter  of  ours  together."  His  tone  was  full  of  a  mean- 
ing she  dared  not  question.  They  climbed  in  silence 
to  the  summer  above  and  traversed,  still  silently,  the 
stretch  of  green  woods  that  grew  beyond  the  canon 
wall.  Only  at  the  first  mountain  meadow,  a  dazzle 

283 


E wing's  Lady 

of  emerald  under  the  slanting  sun,  did  they  halt  to  gaze 
at  each  other.  His  eyes  were  wonderfully  alight  with 
sadness  and  rejoicing  as  she  faced  him,  radiant  in  a 
moment  of  forgetfulness,  flagrant  in  her  beauty's 
renewal. 

"You're  wonderful  again,"  he  said,  almost  whisper- 
ingly,  "you're  all  in  flower  now!"  She  quickened 
under  his  look,  feeling  the  glow  on  her  cheeks.  But 
that  faded  at  his  next  words. 

"I  finished  the  last  of  those  drawings  to-day.  Now 
I  must  go." 

"Ah — go?"  It  was  a  little  cry,  half  of  question,  half 
of  understanding. 

"Yes — I  can  go  now.  I  couldn't  go  before,  but  I 
have  the  money  now." 

She  sickened  as  they  walked  on  in  silence,  fearing 
to  question  him,  and  when  they  reached  the  camp 
she  ran  to  throw  herself  on  the  bed  in  her  tent,  covering 
her  eyes  with  her  hands,  pressing  the  lids  down,  but 
making  no  sound. 

As  they  sat  about  their  camp  fire  that  evening  Ewing 
was  struck  by  a  certain  view  he  caught  of  her.  She 
sat  in  shadow  on  a  stool  at  the  foot  of  a  towering  hem- 
lock, and  once  when  he  rose  to  stir  the  waning  fire  a 
flame  shot  up  from  a  half-burned  log,  with  a  volley  of 
sparks  that  fell  back  in  a  golden  rain.  He  glanced  over 
to  be  sure  that  she  escaped  these,  and  saw  her  sharply 
revealed  in  the  sudden  light,  unconscious  of  it,  unaroused 
by  the  crackling  explosion.  She  was  staring  fixedly 
into  the  darkness,  her  body  relaxed,  her  hands  half 
clasped,  her  head,  the  profile  toward  him,  leaning 
wearily  against  the  tree.  Before  this  background 
she  seemed  frail  again,  her  face  pallid  under  the  dark 

284 


The  Awakening 


of  her  hair  and  against  the  rough,  ruddy  brown  of  the 
tree  bole,  her  whole  body  contrasting  in  its  fragile 
lines  with  the  tree's  strength — human  weakness  showing 
starkly  against  the  vigor  of  the  woods. 

To  dull  the  sudden  wanting  of  his  heart  for  her  he 
walked  off  alone  over  the  path  that  bordered  the  lake, 
to  reduce  the  amazing  actuality  of  things,  if  he  could,  to 
proportions  seemly  with  normal  life.  But  the  lake 
was  a  mirror  of  enchantment,  the  booming  of  an  owl 
was  a  magic  portent,  the  shadowed  wall  of  granite 
was  a  turreted  castle  of  mysteries,  vague  in  the  starlight, 
and  the  very  stars  themselves  huddled  down  on  him 
excitingly.  He  was  in  a  world  of  the  unreal,  and  must  do 
an  unreal  thing.  He  stumbled  blindly  back  to  camp. 
He  was  surprised  to  find  Mrs.  Laithe  as  he  had  left  her, 
still  drooping  against  the  rough -barked  tree,  weak, 
submissive,  overborne.  He  touched  her  arm  gently 
to  recall  her  from  some  troubled  distance.  She  looked 
at  him  with  eyes  unseeing  at  first. 

"Isn't  it  bedtime?"  he  suggested. 

She  smiled  and  stood  up  to  shrug  away  the  spell  of 
her  dreaming.  She  spoke  with  such  clear  strength  of 
tone  that  he  was  at  once  reassured  of  her  vigor. 

"Yes,  it's  sleeping  time — in  a  moment.  I  haven't 
said  much  to  you,  but  there's  really  little  to  say.  You 
feel  that  you  must  go?" 

"How  could  I  stay  here — after  that?" 

She  repressed  a  sudden  spasm  of  wild,  weeping 
laughter  that  threatened  to  overcome  her. 

"  And  you'll  not  come  back? "     She  waited  breathless. 

"There  isn't  much  chance  of  it." 

"You  dear,  dear  fool!"  was  on  her  lips,  but  she  held 
back  the  words  and  said  very  quietly: 

285 


Ewing's  Lady 

"Go  out,  then,  and  live  as  you  must.  Only  don't 
let  life  cow  you.  Don't  ever  fear  that  living  is  intricate 
or  hard  or  tragic — a  thing  to  be  gone  about  warily. 
The  wary  people  make  the  same  mistakes  as  the  careless 
ones,  and  feel  them  ten  times  more.  Don't  be  afraid 
to  dream — afraid  to  believe.  I'm  glad  I've  dreamed 
every  dream  of  mine — false  or  true.  Never  be  afraid 
to  want."  She  turned  half  away  as  if  to  go,  but  halted, 
and  he  thought  she  had  grown  suddenly  weak. 

"You're  going " 

"To-morrow,  I'd  thought — the  sooner  the  better." 

"Ah,  but  that's  so  soon.  Can't  we  have  one  more 
day  here?  One  more  day  to  think  of  it?" 

"  I've  thought  of  it  all  winter,  days  and  nights  as 
well ;  but  I'd  like  another  day —  "  He  watched  her  long- 
ingly as  she  went  beyond  the  firelight. 

"Not  a  day  to  think  about  it,"  he  called  softly — "a 
day  to  forget." 

They  made  it  a  day  of  forgetting,  as  he  had  said.  In 
the  morning  they  planned  to  ride,  and  their  spirits 
were  such  as  they  rode  off  that  Ben  was  moved  to  regard 
them  knowingly,  as  one  who  had  taken  a  fling  at  life 
in  his  time. 

The  day  long  they  rode  or  rambled,  talking  of  all 
but  obvious  things — making  it,  indeed,  a  day  of  forget- 
ting and  a  day  to  remember.  Deep  in  the  woman's 
heart  stirred  an  instinct  of  primal  coquetry,  an  impulse 
to  wield  her  charm  upon  him,  to  make  the  woman  pre- 
vail over  the  man,  beating  all  reason  down,  blindly, 
madly.  And  she  yielded  to  this,  watching  its  effect 
on  him,  divining  the  power  of  her  freshened  beauty 
each  time  she  compelled  his  eyes.  Instinctively  she 
would  have  had  him  say,  "  I  give  up.  I  can't  go. 

286 


The  Awakening 


Let  me  stay — stay  by  you!"  The  natural  woman  in 
her  fought  for  that.  But  reason  reigned  above  the 
conflict.  She  knew  he  would  not  surrender  and  knew 
she  would  not  have  him  surrender.  Still  she  could 
not  resist  that  impulse  to  enchain  him,  and  exulted 
each  time  she  made  him  tremble  at  their  nearness. 

Not  until  night  had  come  did  the  imminence  of  his 
going  seem  to  lie  upon  them.  But  then  it  lay  with  a 
weight.  Together  they  left  the  camp  and  felt  a  way 
over  the  darkened  trail  to  the  cabin.  Ewing  had  spoken 
of  packing  he  must  do,  of  matters  in  which  she  might 
help  him. 

But  when  they  were  in  the  studio,  and  he  had  started 
a  great  blaze  in  the  fireplace  he  sat  before  it  with  her, 
silent.  She  spoke  at  length  of  the  packing. 

"There's  none  to  do,"  he  answered.  "I'm  taking 
scarcely  anything — only  what  I  can  carry  back  of  the 
saddle." 

Her  blood  leaped  with  a  quick  hope. 

"Then  you're  not  going  for  long — you  will  come 
back — "  But  he  only  shook  his  head. 

"I  can't  expect  to  come  back."  He  looked  at  her 
with  a  sudden  lighting  of  his  eyes.  "Come  near  to  me 
this  once."  He  moved  a  stool  in  front  of  him.  "Sit 
here,  this  once." 

She  sat  on  the  low  stool  at  his  feet  and  felt  herself 
drawn  slowly  forward  until  her  arms  rested  on  his 
knees.  She  laid  her  head  on  them,  shaken  to  the  heart. 
Then  she  felt  him  bending  over  her,  hovering,  shelter- 
ing her,  and  at  last,  with  a  long  sigh,  come  to  rest,  his 
face  buried  in  her  hair.  They  remained  so,  immovable, 
without  further  speech. 

The  absurdity  of  the  thing  between  them  had  never 

287 


Ewing's  Lady 

seemed  so  egregious  to  her.  The  words  rang  in  her 
mind,  burning  behind  her  closed  eyes — "It's  all  a 
mistake,  that.  How  could  you  believe  it,  even  you, 
unused  to  the  world  though  you  are?"  But  she  knew 
the  questions  this  would  bring  from  him,  the  doubt 
that  would  stay  with  him;  knew  she  could  never  satisfy 
him  with  less  than  the  truth.  For  a  moment  she  heard 
herself  telling  him  this  truth,  gently,  delicately,  tenderly. 
But  he  spoke,  even  while  she  was  thinking  this. 

"I  wanted  to  be  here  to-night  with  you,  and  with 
her."  He  raised  his  head  at  last,  to  look  at  the  portrait 
of  his  mother.  "She  understands,  I'm  sure.  And 
she  would  have  me  go — she  would  have  me  do  as  I  am 
doing." 

She  knew  finally,  then,  that  she  could  never  tell 
him.  She  ceased  all  vain  considering  of  that.  He  was 
going  away  from  her  because  of  the  lie  he  believed. 
The  truth  might  come  to  him  some  day,  but  it  must 
never  come  from  her.  The  certainty  brought  her  a 
kind  of  rest.  She  could  fall  back  on  laughter  and  tears 
for  the  thing. 

A  long  time  they  sat  there,  speaking  little,  her  head 
still  cradled  on  his  knees.  But  when  the  fire  died  they 
knew  it  must  be  late  and  rose  to  go.  Ewing  looked  long 
at  the  portrait,  then  turned  to  her. 

"I'm  doing  what  I  would  do  for  her,"  he  said,  "and 
I'm  glad  I  had  you  both  with  me  this  last  time.  You'll 
always  keep  that  for  me,  won't  you?"  He  raised  a 
hand  toward  the  portrait. 

"If  you  wish  it,"  she  said. 

When  they  came  in  sight  of  the  camp  fire  they  stopped 
and  turned  to  each  other.  He  caught  her  by  the 
shoulders. 

288 


The  Awakening 

"Good  night  and  good-by!"  he  whispered. 

She  tried  to  speak,  but  could  not  for  the  trembling 
of  her  lips.  She  turned  to  go,  and  took  a  few  faltering 
steps,  then  flew  back,  and  with  a  wild  gesture,  drew 
him  down  and  pressed  his  head  against  her  heart. 

Ben  came  sleepily  from  the  cabin  next  morning  as 
Ewing  was  about  to  mount  his  horse.  He  had  felt  at 
ease  about  this  journey,  because  of  the  slender  equip- 
ment with  which  Ewing  was  setting  out.  An  early 
return  was  to  be  inferred. 

Ewing  held  out  his  hand,  and  Ben,  observing  that 
it  was  scarce  daylight,  and  that  the  act  could  in  no 
way  be  considered  a  public  scandal,  grasped  it  cordially. 

"So  long,  Kid — and  good  luck,  whatever  you're 
goin'  to  do!" 

"  There's  a  man  down  in  New  York  needs  killing,  Ben." 

"Now,  look  a  here,  Kid,  you  better  look  out" — but 
the  practical  aspects  of  the  affair  at  once  seized  his 
mind,  and  he  broke  off  with,  "Got  your  gun?" 

"No — a  gun's  too  good  for  him." 

Ben  considered  this,  and  became  again  solicitous. 

"Well,  look  a  here,  now,  you  be  darned  careful.  If 
it's  needed,  why,  do  it.  But  you  jest  want  to  remember 
that  New  York  ain't  Hinsdale  County.  You  want  to 
be  mighty  careful  you  don't  git  into  some  trouble  over 
it." 


289 


CHAPTER  XXX 

THE   HARDEST  THING 

THE  zest  had  gone  from  camp  life  with  Ewing's 
departure,  and  the  cabin  was  again  occupied. 
Mrs.  Laithe  filled  the  days  with  a  sort  of 
blind  waiting.  It  could  not  end  so,  she  felt,  despite 
the  eyes  of  Kitty  Teevan,  so  watchful  of  her,  and  so 
certain  that  it  had  ended.  Something  must  happen. 
That  was  the  burden  of  her  hope — as  vague  as  a  child's 
hope.  She  would  set  no  time,  nor  would  she  name 
the  thing.  But  come  it  must,  and  she  could  wait. 

When  Beulah  Pierce  rode  by  on  his  way  from  Pagosa 
and  left  their  mail  one  afternoon,  she  felt  no  eagerness 
about  it.  There  could  be  nothing  so  soon,  she  was 
sure.  Virginia  brought  her  some  letters  and  read 
aloud  one  from  the  aunt  at  Kensington.  Then  Mrs. 
Laithe  looked  through  her  own  letters  and  found  one 
from  Ewing.  She  did  not  open  it,  but  rose  after  a  few 
moments,  and  walked  swiftly  over  to  the  lake  camp. 
Only  there,  alone,  could  she  trust  herself. 

She  read  the  thing  staringly,  haltingly,  testing  each 
phrase  as  if  it  were  worded  in  some  strange  tongue. 

"  I  can  tell  you  now  what  I  came  for,"  the  letter  ran, 
''because  the  thing  will  be  done  before  this  letter  can 
reach  you.  It's  a  thing  you  want  done,  but  if  you  had 
known  I  meant  to  do  it  you  would  have  tried  to  prevent 
me,  and  that  would  only  have  distressed  us  both.  But 
now,  when  it  is  all  over,  you  will  see  that  I  was  the  one 

290 


The  Hardest  Thing 


person  in  the  world  to  do  it  for  you.  Think  if  you  had 
killed  him  yourself  that  night,  the  pain  you  would 
have  brought  to  yourself  and  to  others.  It  wasn't  a 
woman's  work.  I  would  have  done  it  for  you  then, 
but  I  owed  him  money.  I  couldn't  kill  him  till  I  had 
paid  that. 

"  I  used  to  dream  of  doing  things  for  you  always, 
many  things,  big  and  little,  but  it  has  turned  out  that 
I  can  do  only  this.  So  won't  you  try  to  believe  that 
I  am  putting  all  my  heart  into  it  for  you,  all  that  thing 
I  would  have  tried  to  show  you  if  it  had  been  scattered 
over  the  rest  of  our  lives?  I  must  put  it  all  into  this 
one  act. 

"Ben  seemed  to  suspect  that  such  affairs  could  be 
managed  here  with  the  informality  that  often  marks 
them  in  the  San  Juan,  but  you  and  I  know  better.  I 
cannot  expect  to  return,  nor  to  see  you  again.  Yet 
I  shall  see  you  always;  see  no  one  else — while  they  let 
me  see  at  all.  We  must  take  life  as  it  falls,  do  the  next 
thing  without  complaining,  even  if  it  is  the  hardest  thing. 
And  be  sure  of  this — I  shall  do  it  so  quickly  that  he 
will  have  no  chance  to  tell  me  anything.  He  will  not 
even  speak  your  name.  Afterwards  you  can  have  this 
to  remember,  that  I  did  it  gladly,  knowing  what  the 
consequences  would  be.  I  hope  that  will  be,  in  time,  the 
happiness  to  you  that  it  is  to  me.  It  is  enough  for  me." 

Over  and  over  she  read  it,  and  at  last  she  mastered 
it — all  the  horror  of  it.  A  long  time  she  gazed  dumbly 
at  the  sheets,  then  once  more  she  laughed  the  old,  low 
laugh,  with  a  sinister  note  in  it  now.  Ben  Crider  found 
her  there  an  hour  later,  staring  blankly  out  over  the  flawed 
surface  of  the  lake.  The  breeze  was  swirling  many 
finely  torn  bits  of  paper  about  her  feet. 

291 


Ewing's  Lady 


As  they  walked  back  to  the  cabin  she  reflected  that 
the  letter  had  lain  four  days  in  the  postoffice  at  Pagosa. 
It  had  been  written  nine  days  before.  Then  Ewing  had 
done  the  thing.  She  no  more  believed  that  Randall 
Teevan  still  lived  than  she  believed  that  the  mountains 
about  her  were  phantoms.  A  sentence  from  the  letter 
ran  in  her  mind.  "We  must  take  life  as  it  falls — do 
the  next  thing  without  complaining,  even  if  it  is  the 
hardest  thing." 

"The  hardest  thing!" 

She  pleaded  fatigue  and  lack  of  appetite  to  Virginia 
and  sought  her  bed  to  lie  and  think  in  the  dark.  She 
saw  her  own  hardest  thing,  the  thing  she  must  do. 

She  had  caused  a  man  to  be  put  to  death;  a  vicious, 
mischievous  fool,  it  was  true,  but  still  a  man.  That 
was  sad  and  horrible.  But  of  another  man,  one  she 
had  thought  to  guard  and  cherish  and  care  for  in  all 
of  woman's  ways — she  had  made  a  murderer,  and  she 
had  murdered  him.  For  she  knew  that  Ewing  must  die. 
It  was  as  if  he  were  already  dead.  Perhaps  out  there 
in  the  agonized  void  of  the  world  he  had  already  killed 
himself,  his  work  being  done.  Or,  if  not,  they  would 
kill  him.  She  felt  a  blind,  hollow  sickness,  as  if  her  heart 
had  broken  and  was  bleeding  away  inside  her.  She 
had  made  her  beloved  a  slayer  and  had  slain  him. 
She  could  not  live  with  it.  She  hungered  for  her  own 
death  with  intolerable  desire. 

She  arose  with  a  despair-cleared  mind  the  next  morn- 
ing, her  resolve  made.  Only  the  smaller  details  were 
to  be  worked  out.  She  walked  by  the  lake,  revolving 
these.  Once  she  wept,  from  the  very  abundance  and 
color  of  life  about  her.  Life  was  so  full,  and  she  had 
taken  it  from  him  in  his  splendid  youth.  But  she  would 

292 


The  Hardest  Thing 


not  shirk  the  penalty  of  her  blood -guiltiness.  She  looked 
out  to  the  hills  beyond  the  valley  that  fell  away  from  the 
lake,  studying  headland  and  wooded  slope  and  canon 
opening,  choked  with  green.  Some  spot  far  out  there 
would  be  secret  and  gracious  to  her — welcome  her  with 
a  finger  on  its  lips — take  her  and  keep.  Death,  to  her, 
was  no  longer  terrible.  There  had  been  a  long  intimacy 
with  it.  She  rushed  to  the  idea  of  it  as  to  a  home — a 
benignant  succor  from  the  unendurable  thought. 

Back  in  the  cabin  she  lay  counting  the  minutes  as  they 
rushed — thinking  and  counting.  She  must  not  let  her- 
self be  prisoned  by  a  mere  body  that  exulted  blindly, 
basely,  in  its  vigor.  She  could  make  everything  right. 
She  could  conform  to  the  law  of  a  life  for  a  life. 

"  The  hardest  thing,"  she  murmured.  "  I  must  do  the 
hardest  thing."  That  would  be  her  expiation,  though 
not  a  sufficing  one ;  she  recognized  that.  She  longed  for 
it  too  avidly,  for  the  relief  from  thought,  from  torturing 
visions.  Yet  it  was  formally  perfect  as  a  punishment, 
according  to  the  world's  standards.  She  would  be 
her  own  executioner,  and  it  would  satisfy  the  world  if 
the  world  knew.  And  despite  her  longing  for  release, 
it  was  still,  she  thought,  the  hardest  thing,  although  it 
saved — saved  her  from  that  old  man  and  that  young 
man  slain:  that  young  beloved  one,  lying  dead  with 
blood  upon  his  hands.  Poor  sacrificed,  poor  betrayed, 
poor  ruined  one!  Again,  the  hollow  sickness,  as  if  her 
heart  were  bleeding  away  inside  her.  To  expiate — to 
do  the  hardest  thing.  She  came  back  to  that  always. 
It  was  the  hardest  thing,  although  it  saved. 

When  her  brother  rode  up  in  the  afternoon,  she  instantly 
saw  her  plan  completed.  There  came  an  hour  in  which 
she  walked  and  talked  and  laughed  in  a  waking  dream, 

293 


Ewing's  Lady 

without  sensation,  except  as  she  could  imagine  it  felt  by 
a  creature  she  seemed  to  watch  from  afar,  a  creature 
who  had  looked  strangely  like  herself.  She  saw  this 
woman  greet  the  others  and  sit  at  table  with  them  to 
laugh  and  talk  with  acceptable  ease.  Their  voices  were 
soundless  as  voices  in  a  dream,  their  shapes  and  Sittings 
as  illogical.  So  benumbed  was  her  spirit  that  she  suf- 
fered little  even  at  the  moment  of  hurried  parting  from 
Virginia.  Her  role  was  played  with  flawless  detachment. 
She  studied  herself  coolly  and  guarded  against  wrong 
speeches. 

"I  shall  go  home  with  Clarence;  I  haven't  seen  that 
magnificent  ranch  yet,"  she  remarked  carelessly,  and 
Virginia  and  her  brother  had  applauded  this. 

"  I'll  show  you  a  ranch  that  is  a  ranch,"  Bartell  had 
answered. 

Ben  led  Cooney  around,  saddled.  She  kissed  Virginia 
lightly  and  was  on  the  little  horse.  She  turned  to  wave 
gayly  as  she  fell  in  ahead  of  Bartell  on  the  trail  to  the  lake. 

The  moon  had  sailed  up  over  the  eastern  hills  with 
the  going  down  of  the  sun,  and  the  shadows  were  sharply 
cut  in  its  light.  They  reined  in  at  the  lake,  lingering 
there  a  moment  in  its  charm.  Under  the  slanting 
moon  rays  it  shone  like  another  moon,  radiantly  silver 
in  its  setting  of  cloudlike  leafage.  She  drew  a  long 
breath  as  her  brother  started  on,  and  called  to  him. 

"Clarence ! "  He  pulled  up  his  horse,  looking  back  at  her. 

"You'll  think  me  absurd,  but  I've  decided  not  to  go 
with  you,  after  all.  I  believe  I'd  rather  stay  with 
Virginia.  She'll  be  lonesome." 

He  came  back  to  her,  scolding  whimsically. 

"I  know  I'm  foolish,"  she  persisted,  "but  you're  so 
dreadfully  busy  and  noisy  over  there." 

294 


The  Hardest  Thing 


"Nonsense !  And  Virgie  will  be  all  right.  She  doesn't 
need  you  for  a  few  days." 

"  I'm  sure  she'll  need  me.  No — go  on  alone,  there's 
a  dear.  I  can  ride  over  myself  and  bring  you  back  for  a 
few  days,  after  your  rush  is  over." 

"  Well,  if  you're  really  set."    He  submitted,  grumbling. 

"And  kiss  me,  dear!" 

He  did  so,  still  grumbling.  "And  you  skip  back, 
if  you're  going  back.  You're  cold  as  ice.  So  long, 
weathervane!  And  come  over  when  you  feel  like  it." 

"I'll  be  warm,  dear — and  good-by." 

She  watched  him  down  the  slope  and  across  the 
meadow  until  he  vanished  into  the  black  of  the  forest 
wall.  Then  she  rode  on  to  the  camp.  Without  dis- 
mounting she  took  from  the  end  of  a  broken  branch  a 
revolver  in  its  holster  that  she  had  hung  there  earlier  in 
the  day.  She  made  sure  again  that  it  was  loaded  and 
buckled  the  holster  about  her  waist. 

Turning  from  the  ranch  trail,  then,  she  found  another 
that  led  off  to  the  north  and  away  from  the  Pagosa 
road — off  into  a  wooded  wilderness  of  hills  where  she 
would  be  safe  from  discovery.  She  halted  again  on 
the  first  ridge  above  the  camp,  sitting  motionless  in  the 
shadow,  her  eyes  on  the  little  moon-flooded  opening 
across  the  lake  where  the  cabin  trail  came  down  to  the 
shore.  That  was  a  walk  for  lovers,  but  they  could  not 
walk  there  now.  After  a  little  time  she  whirled  Cooney 
about  in  a  sudden  gust  of  fierceness  and  sent  him  along 
the  winding  ridge,  keeping  close  within  the  shadow. 

When  the  trail  fell  away  into  the  first  of  the  unknown 
valleys  she  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief  and  release.  Her 
burden  was  falling  from  her.  She  could  not  again  be 
cheated  back  from  her  refuge. 

295 


Ewing's  Lady 

She  began  to  rejoice  in  the  wide,  wild  sweetness  of 
the  night,  its  piny  fragrance,  the  soft-footed  scurryings 
of  its  lesser  people,  the  gloom  of  its  sharply  defined 
shadows,  and  the  silvering  haze  that  enveloped  the  peaks. 
She  came  on  a  deer  feeding  in  the  open,  and  was  delighted 
when  it  did  not  run.  It  only  lifted  its  head  to  look  at 
her. 

She  began  to  rejoice,  also,  in  the  cleverness  of  her  plan. 
As  well  as  she  might  she  had  preserved  the  decencies. 
A  week  might  ensue  before  they  missed  her.     Coone> 
stripped  of  his  trappings,  would  appear  at  the  lake  cabin 
to  be  laughed  at  and  chided  for  his  desertion  of  the  Bar-1 
ranch,  a  week  before  she  was  missed ;  and  then  she  wou, 
never  be  found.     There  was,  indeed,  small  chance  o 
their  having  the  pain  of  that.     She  would  keep  to  the 
trail  as  long  as  the  night  hid  her;  then  a  climb  up  some 
unpathed  slope,  over  rocks  that  would  show  no  trace  of 
her  passage;  then  a  tangled  thicket,  remote,  secret,  im- 
probable— and  the  tale  of  a  lost  woman,  a  woman  who 
wandered  confusingly  far  on  a  night  of  tempting  splen- 
dor.    She  thought  of  Virginia's  pain  with  a  feeble  pity. 
It  seemed  as  if  humanity  was  dead  in  her. 

The  narrow  trail  wound  beckoningly  before  her,  the 
land  stretched  off  to  peaks  of  silver  or  barren  gray  slopes 
or  shadowed  promontories,  glooming  above  ravines  where 
little  rivers  turned  restlessly  in  their  beds;  and  over  all 
hung  the  mystic  shimmer  of  moon  rays,  softening  all 
angles  and  picking  the  fronds  of  trees  with  dancing  lights 
as  she  passed. 

An  owl  boomed  from  a  dead  pine,  and  a  little  off  the 
trail  she  heard  the  scream  of  a  cougar,  like  the  scream 
of  a  woman  in  some  strange  terror.  But  all  sounds  were 
indifferently  alike  to  her,  the  shrilling  of  the  beast,  the 

296 


The  Hardest  Thing 


sibilance  of  running  water,  the  bellow  of  the  owl,  the 
whistle  of  a  deer,  or  the  throaty  mutterings  of  an  awak- 
ened bird.  She  heard  them  as  receding  echoes  of  a  life 
already  remote. 

She  kept  Cooney  moving  as  rapidly  as  the  trail  per- 
mitted, checking  his  little  snatches  at  the  wayside  herb- 
age. He  could  fast  with  her  for  one  night,  she  told 
him.  To-morrow  he  could  feast  his  way  home  harassed 
by  no  rider.  He  stopped  at  times  to  test  some  doubtful 
bit  of  trail  with  a  cautious  forefoot;  or  slowed  to  feel  a 
sure  way  down  a  gullyside  of  loose  stones;  or  lingered 
knee  deep  in  a  melody  of  swift  water,  to  drink,  with 
swelling  sides.  She  was  glad  to  have  this  last  night  with 
the  little  horse  that  had  been  Ewing's.  Ewing — only 
not  to  think  of  him — for  one  cannot  ride  with  the  heart 
all  bled  away. 

The  light  faded  from  the  lower  ways  after  a  while. 
The  moon  had  completed  its  short  arc  and  fell  below 
the  mountain  ahead  of  her ;  defining  sharp  little  notches 
in  its  rim. 

The  hills  seemed  to  steal  upon  her  in  the  darkness 
then,  huddling  close  about  her,  muffling  her  with  their 
black  plumage.  But  she  was  glad  of  this — surmounting 
the  mere  physical  oppression  of  it — for  she  felt  that  it 
doubled  the  secrecy  of  her  going;  and  Cooney 's  eyes, 
with  his  skilled  feet,  sufficed  for  the  trail. 

At  times  she  shrank  as  under  the  touch  of  a  palpable 
hand  reached  out  to  her  from  the  darkness,  a  thing  that 
frantically  protested,  pleaded,  expostulated — but  she 
knew  it  for  the  hand  of  mere  brute  life,  a  cowardly, 
blind,  soulless  thing,  that  would  subvert  all  fitness. 
She  shook  it  off,  knowing  herself  its  superior  by  right 
of  mind,  with  power  to  inflict  justice  upon  it.  And 
30  297 


Ewing's  Lady 

he  was  dead,  he,  the  young  and  strong — alas,  poor  slayer, 
poor  slain !  How  her  heart  bled  away.  To  expiate 

She  clung  to  that :  it  was  an  obligation  that  lay  on  her, 
a  secret  obligation,  but  the  more  imperative  for  that. 
She  could  not  hold  a  forfeited  life.  She  must  redeem 
herself.  The  hardest  thing  was  demanded  of  her.  And 
then,  one  could  not  go  on  with  this  bleeding  heart. 

"The  hardest  thing — the  hardest  thing!"  she  mur- 
mured, shutting  her  lips  tightly  on  the  words,  with  a 
sudden  inexplicable  fear  of  some  flaw  in  her  logic.  Again 
and  again  she  forced  the  words  from  her  lips  with  stub- 
born, deaf  insistence,  to  still  some  mental  voice  of  inquiry, 
a  passionless,  cold  thing  that  lifted  itself  in  her  brain, 
but  which  she  could  beat  down  with  this  bludgeon  of 
her  phrase.  She  was  even  bold  enough  to  cross-examine 
herself  presently.  The  hardest  thing  was  demanded  of 
her,  and  she  was  doing  the  hardest  thing.  Her  hand 
fell  on  the  laden  holster  at  her  side  with  a  panic  impulse 
to  rush  the  thing  through.  But  the  touch  reassured  her 
and  she  laughed  in  the  consciousness  of  her  security. 
She  could  not  be  thwarted  now,  and  she  need  not  hurry. 
She  could  afford  to  the  very  end  that  deliberate  thor- 
oughness with  which  she  had  begun.  Her  will  for  the 
thing  had  lost  none  of  its  iron. 

An  hour  or  so  after  the  darkness  had  crowded  the  hills 
in  upon  her  she  rode  into  a  dense  mist,  chilling  to  the 
bone  after  the  dryness  of  the  early  night.  The  range 
of  her  vision  was  again  shortened,  and  even  the  little 
horse  halted  more  frequently  to  feel  his  way.  Once 
he  seemed  to  have  wandered,  and  stood  a  moment  in 
uncertainty.  She  let  him  rest,  then  flicked  his  shoulder 
with  the  bridle  rein,  and  he  struggled  stanchly  on  over 
the  ridge  of  loose  gravel  where  he  had  halted,  feeling 

298 


The  Hardest  Thing 


for  the  trail  with  expert  hoofs.  He  found  it  a  moment 
later,  and  was  moving  forward  again.  She  patted  his 
neck  and  blessed  him  for  being  so  "trail  wise."  He, 
too,  was  doing  the  hardest  thing,  and  doing  it  faithfully. 

She  fell  again  into  the  rhythm  of  her  battle  cry — 
"The  hardest  thing — the  hardest  thing!" 

And  yet  it  was  not  hard.  She  was  so  near  to  it  now 
that  she  could  afford  the  luxury  of  this  admission. 
It  required  only  a  sense  of  justice,  of  moral  symmetry. 
She  had  taken  a  life — two,  doubtless — and  by  the  law 
she  must  pay.  But  no  debtor  could  have  had  a  willinger 
spirit.  And  she  would  not  be  paying  too  much.  She 
recalled  certain  homely  words  of  an  old  man  whose 
life  she  had  watched  out,  a  man  whose  worn,  seamed 
face  showed  his  right  to  speak. 

"Experience,  lady,  a  dear  thing  sometimes — yes — 
but  never  too  dear.  It  is  worth  always  just  what  we 
pay  for  it.  It  is  had  at  slightest  cost,  high  or  low.  No 
other  thing  is  like  it  thus.  All  else  of  the  world  may 
cheat  us  in  their  price,  but  not  experience.  Our  fee 
shall  vary  as  we  are  quick  to  learn,  but  the  good  God 
teaches  us  what  we  must  know  at  flat  cost,  as  says  the 
merchant,  with  never  the  penny  of  profit.  This  it 
saves  much  to  know — much  sorrowing,  much  whining. 
It  would  make  us  wise — so!" 

"So!"  She  echoed  his  rich  guttural  imitatively 
and  laughed  as  she  drew  in  a  deep  breath  of  the  damp 
air.  She  was  numb  with  the  cold  now,  and  laughed 
at  foolish  life  for  registering  so  petty  a  discomfort  at 
such  a  moment.  The  humor  of  it  came  home  to  her— 
that  she  should  sensually  feel  the  cold. 

Another  span  of  hours  the  little  horse  strode  on  at 
his  quick  step,  valiantly  lifting  her  up  steep  ascents, 

299 


Ewing's  Lady 

or  descending  the  sides  of  ravines  with  devoted  sure- 
ness  of  foot,  treading  narrow  ways  where  she  could 
feel  that  he  hugged  the  bush-lined  bank,  and  knew  that 
a  fall  lay  the  other  side. 

"The  hardest  thing — the  hardest  thing!"  Again 
she  muttered  it,  beating  at  her  purpose.  And  again, 
that  mental,  passionless  query  lifted  its  head.  Strike  it 
down  as  she  would,  its  cool,  curious  eyes  were  always 
on  her,  not  denying,  not  disputing,  only  questioning, 
calmly  but  implacably,  until  her  soul  seemed  to  writhe 
in  loyalty  to  her  motives,  holding  them  sacred  even 
from  questioning. 

"The  hardest  thing" — but  her  brain  rang  with  the 
relentless  question — "are  you  doing  it  because  it  is 
the  hardest  thing  or  because  you  want  to  do  it?" 

"I  am  doing  it  because  I  want  to  do  the  hardest 
thing." 

"A  quibble!" 

She  set  her  lips,  shut  her  eyes,  even  to  the  darkness, 
and  tried  to  deafen  her  ears  to  the  sounding  thing.  A 
long  time  she  rode  so.  And  then  she  wept  because  she 
was  alone  and  cold  and  dying  and  unsuccored  by  the 
only  one  who  could  have  comforted  her. 

"  I  would  never,  never  have  left  you!"  she  called  back 
toward  Ewing,  with  the  first  reproach  she  had  ever 
given  him.  Her  voice  had  a  broken  sweetness  like  that 
of  a  child  speaking  through  tears.  "  I'd  never  have 
let  you  be  so  cold!  I'd  have  stayed — stayed  by  you — 
warmed  you — comforted  you!" 

But  after  a  little  her  tears  ceased,  as  an  unpitied 
child  wears  out  its  crying,  and  her  eyes  closed  again  as 
she  laughed  at  her  own  sad  lack  of  reason. 

When  she  opened  her  eyes  again  she  gave  a  little 

300 


The  Hardest  Thing 


gasping  cry  of  relief.  The  black  of  the  night  had  faded 
to  gray.  A  dull,  dark,  opaque  gray  it  was,  but  ghosts 
of  the  land  already  bulked  massively  through  it; 
shrouded,  vague  shapes  without  line.  And  the  spirit 
of  her  purpose  quickened  as  she  looked. 

Slowly  the  mist  lightened,  still  opaque  but  silver 
now,  and  presently  she  saw  the  murky  face  of  a  nearby 
rock  and  could  trace  the  cedar  that  twisted  outward 
from  its  summit.  They  were  amazing  shapes  to  her, 
so  long  had  she  seemed  to  live  in  the  dark,  and  she 
named  them  over,  wonderingly — "  A  tree,  a  rock — a 
rock,  a  tree!" 

Again  the  question  struck  at  her:  "You  want  to  do 
the  hardest  thing?" 

"I  must  do  the  hardest  thing — it  only  happens  that 
I  also  wish  to." 

"Is  there  nothing  harder  than  what  you  are  doing?" 

Again  she  shut  her  eyes  and  set  her  lips,  but  the 
voice  came  with  merciless  insistence. 

"What  would  be  harder  than  dying?" 

Then  she  threw  back  her  head  and  challenged  the  voice. 

"Living!  To  live  would  be  harder."  She  made 
the  confession  without  flinching,  even  with  a  laugh, 
and  a  weight  dropped  from  her. 

"Then  you  are  not  doing  the  hardest  thing — not 
doing  it — not  doing  the  hardest  thing!" 

She  coolly  scanned  the  descending  bed  of  a  creek 
that  the  trail  now  crossed.  The  ravine  widened  below, 
and  she  saw  that  an  ascent  would  be  practicable  farther 
down.  It  was  time,  then,  to  leave  the  trail.  If  the 
impossible  should  happen,  if  by  some  chance  or  trick 
of  woodcraft  they  tracked  her  all  the  miles  of  her  night- 
long ride,  they  must  lose  her  here. 

301 


Ewing's  Lady 

She  turned  Cooney  down  the  shallow  stream  with  a 
furtive  smile  of  pride  in  her  own  craft.  He  splashed 
through  the  water,  stumbling  over  the  submerged 
bowlders,  but  always  recovering  himself,  and  picking 
a  sure  way  over  the  creek  bed. 

The  cool  gray  of  the  mist-steaming  water  reminded 
her  that  she  was  thirsty,  but  she  would  stop  for  nothing 
now.  She  knew  herself  for  a  coward  at  last,  guilty 
of  a  cowardice  hideously  selfish.  She  had  planned 
her  act  to  be  remote,  secret,  undiscoverable.  But  now 
she  faced  squarely  the  grief  her  loss  would  be  to  others. 

But  the  sting  would  pass.  And  she  had  her  own 
right — her  own  obligation  to  meet.  She  had  killed — 
she  had  killed  her  love — and  she  could  not  live.  There 
was  service  she  might  have  performed  through  the 
years,  but  others  would  perform  it  now,  quite  as  accept- 
ably. A  gnat  dropping  from  the  ephemeral  human 
swarm  could  be  nothing  but  a  gnat  the  less.  She  no 
longer  pretended  to  call  it  the  hardest  thing.  "But 
it's  the  next  hardest,"  she  pleaded  to  herself.  Her 
lips  quivered,  but  she  stilled  the  spasm  with  a  gust  of 
fierce  resolving  to  be  done  with  the  thing  quickly. 

The  shelving  bank  along  which  the  stream  had  wound 
now  fell  away,  and  she  could  dimly  make  out  a  draw 
between  two  hills  where  she  might  ascend.  She  chose 
a  place  of  broken  stone  and  loose  gravel  for  Cooney 
to  clamber  out,  so  that  he  might  leave  no  sign  even 
to  a  searcher  who  had  come  this  far.  Then,  ascending 
the  draw  a  little  distance,  she  turned  and  sent  him  up 
the  side  of  the  lesser  hill.  The  mist  still  shut  her  in, 
but  she  could  make  out  that  the  woods  were  denser 
on  this  hill. 

Cooney  made  his  way  through  a  growth  of  the  thick, 

302 


The  Hardest  Thing 


wet  buck  brush,  then  between  white  files  of  the  quaking 
aspen,  and  at  last  into  the  heavier  wooded  forest  where 
his  feet  slipped  and  slid  on  the  yielding  pine  needles 
as  he  climbed.  The  hill  lengthened  before  her  in  gradual 
ascents,  broken  by  terraces,  and  the  way  was  rough 
with  bowlders  and  fallen  trees  and  the  clutching  tangle 
of  undergrowth.  But  the  mist,  receding  before  her, 
revealed  aisles  of  the  wood  farther  on  that  allured  her. 
She  would  be  thorough.  Ahead  of  her  were  ruddy, 
yellow  hints  of  the  sun,  striking  down  through  the 
green  arches  of  the  forest. 

At  last  she  saw  that  she  had  reached  the  summit 
of  the  hill.  "It  is  the  place,"  she  said,  then  reined  in 
and  dismounted  by  a  clump  of  bushes.  She  found  her- 
self stiffened  by  the  cold,  and  a  sudden  fear  of  failing 
force  seized  her.  She  stamped  on  the  ground  until 
she  felt  warmth  in  her  feet  again,  and  the  stirred  blood 
mounting  through  her.  She  drew  a  great  breath  and 
straightened  her  body  with  a  consciousness  of  its 
strength  and  wealth  of  life.  "It  is  the  place,"  she 
repeated. 


303 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

THE   MISSION   OF  SWING 

IN  a  dingy  little  bedroom  of  a  dingy  little  hotel  in 
one  of  the  lesser  avenues  of  New  York  Ewing 
sat  waiting  for  his  hour.  He  had  sealed  his  letter 
to  Mrs.  Laithe  with  the  feeling  that  this  was  the  last 
intelligible  word  he  could  say  to  anyone.  Henceforth  he 
must  be  silent ;  refuse  reasons.  He  must  let  them  devise 
reasons  for  him.  Any  but  the  true  reason  would  suffice. 

When  darkness  came  on  he  went  out  into  the  noisy 
street,  mailing  the  letter  as  he  passed  through  the  hotel 
office.  Then,  by  u-nfamiliar  thoroughfares  he  made 
his  way  to  Ninth  .Street  and  resumed  his  old  vigil  in 
front  of  Teevan's  house. 

There  were  lights  in  the  house,  both  above  and  below. 
The  thing  was  not,  then,  to  be  attempted  at  the  mo- 
ment. He  walked  for  an  hour  through  squalid  streets 
to  the  west  and  came  back  to  his  post.  The  house  was 
still  alight.  Teevan,  apparently,  was  entertaining.  He 
watched  but  a  moment,  then  returned  to  his  hotel 
and  went  to  bed.  He  could  be  patient,  and  he  must  be 
thorough.  Before  extinguishing  his  light  he  made 
sure  that  he  had  not  lost  what  was  now  his  most  impor- 
tant possession:  a  key  to  Teevan's  door.  Teevan  had 
bestowed  it  on  him  the  year  before,  in  order  that  he 
might  obtain  books  during  the  little  man's  absence 
from  town.  Ewing  had  forgotten  the  key  until  he  set 
on  his  present  mission ;  then  he  had  perceived  a  use  for  it. 

He  fell  asleep,  despite  the  recurrent  tumult  of  elevated 

3°4 


The  Mission  of  Ewing 


trains  outside  his  window ;  fell  asleep  thinking  of  Teevan. 
There  was  no  bitterness  in  his  heart  toward  the  little 
man.  It  was  only  necessary  that  he  die. 

He  kept  closely  to  his  room  the  next  day,  wishing 
not  to  be  recognized  by  any  of  his  acquaintances,  and 
he  was  at  his  post  early  in  the  evening.  This  time  the 
house  was  dark.  Teevan  was  out,  but  he  would  return. 
So  he  paced  back  and  forth  through  Ninth  Street,  going 
only  so  far  as  would  let  him  keep  the  house  in  view. 
He  felt  no  impatience.  It  was  his  last  work,  and  he 
could  bide  the  time  when  it  might  be  well  done.  A 
little  after  midnight  two  men  entered  the  street  from 
Fifth  Avenue,  strolling  leisurely  in  the  warm  June 
night,  and  ascended  the  steps  of  the  Teevan  house. 
Ewing  felt  a  slight  tingling  of  relief  when  he  recognized 
Teevan,  but  then  he  saw  the  other  take  a  key  from  his 
pocket,  and  he  knew  that  this  would  be  Tee  van's  son. 
They  went  in  together,  and  the  watcher  left  his  post. 
He  must  have  Teevan  alone  in  the  house. 

He  walked  on  with  strange  echoes  from  another  time 
— from  another  world,  it  seemed,  sounding  in  his  ears. 
The  sight  of  Teevan,  the  tones  of  his  voice,  faintly 
heard,  seemed  to  awaken  him  from  some  dream  in 
which  he  walked,  awaken  him  to  a  time  when  the  little 
man  was  his  good  friend.  He  felt  a  sudden  nausea, 
but  then  he  raised  his  eyes  to  the  Bartell  house  opposite 
and  was  himself  again.  He  crossed  the  street  and 
stood  a  moment  before  the  door,  seeing  his  lady  there, 
seeing  her  again  as  he  had  seen  her  that  night  in  Teevan's 
grasp,  striving  with  Teevan,  weakly,  but  with  the 
killing  light  in  her  eyes.  The  vision  convinced  him. 
The  other  time  had  been  the  time  of  dream.  He  had 
not  been  awake  until  now. 

31  305 


Ewing's  Lady 


Again  he  slept  and  again  he  passed  a  day  of  waiting. 
That  night  there  were  no  lights  in  the  house,  but  also 
no  returning  master,  though  he  waited  until  the  night 
was  far  on.  Yet  he  went  to  sleep  in  all  patience,  know- 
ing he  had  only  to  wait. 

On  the  fourth  night  there  were  lights  again,  but 
about  ten  o'clock  he  saw  Teevan's  two  servants  leave. 
He  walked  on,  to  avoid  recognition  by  them.  When 
he  returned  a  man  was  leaving  the  house.  He  thought 
this  might  be  Teevan,  but  when  the  figure  had  descended 
the  steps  and  passed  under  the  street  lamp  he  saw  it 
to  be  Teevan's  son.  Still  he  waited.  He  must  be  sure. 

After  half  an  hour  the  lights  in  the  lower  part  of  the 
house  went  out,  save  one  that  shone  dimly  through  the 
fanlight  over  the  door.  A  moment  later  two  windows 
on  the  floor  above  leaped  ruddily  into  view  and  he  saw 
a  shadow  pass  across  them.  This  was  Teevan's  room, 
and  Teevan  was  doubtless  there,  alone  at  last. 

He  did  not  cross  the  street  directly,  but  walked  east 
to  the  end  of  the  block  and  came  back  on  the  other  side. 
As  he  passed  the  Bartell  house  he  opened  and  closed 
his  hands  tensely,  recalling  Ben's  suggestion  about  a 
weapon.  His  bare  hands  were  sufficing  weapons. 

He  went  up  the  steps  and  softly  turned  his  key  in 
the  lock.  The  door  yielded  noiselessly  to  his  push  and 
he  was  in  the  hall.  Unconsciously  he  took  off  his  hat 
and  was  about  to  leave  it,  but  then  he  smiled  and 
replaced  it  firmly  on  his  head.  He  stood  listening  a 
moment.  There  was  no  sound.  Then,  very  slowly, 
taking  each  step  with  caution,  he  mounted  the  thickly 
carpeted  stairs. 

So  intent  was  he  on  his  purpose  that  he  felt  no  anxiety, 
no  excitement.  As  he  halted  at  the  head  of  the  stairs 

306 


The  Mission  of  Ewing 


to  listen  again,  he  thrilled  only  with  the  need  for  perfect 
silence,  a  thing  he  would  have  felt  in  the  same  degree 
if  his  quarry  had  been  a  deer  in  some  green  cover  of 
the  hills.  Still  without  a  sound  he  felt  his  way  to 
the  door  of  Teevan's  room.  The  door  was  open  and 
light  from  it  glowed  dimly  into  the  hall.  He  paused 
within  the  shadow  and  peered  into  the  room.  He 
could  see  the  desk  but  not  the  man  who  sat  before  it. 
Of  him  he  could  see  only  an  arm  and  hand — writing 
at  the  moment.  Presently  the  hand  dropped  its  pen 
and  took  up  a  tall  glass  that  stood  near.  The  glass 
ascended  and  passed  beyond  the  watcher's  range  of 
vision.  The  hand  brought  it  back,  empty,  a  moment 
later,  and  resumed  the  pen  once  more. 

He  took  a  step  forward  and  brought  the  room  into 
view.  Teevan  sat  at  the  desk,  his  head  bent  and  half 
turned  away.  Ewing  coolly  noted  his  position.  He 
seemed  smaller  than  ever,  smaller  and  older.  But 
now  no  time  must  be  wasted. 

Ewing  stepped  through  the  doorway  with  noiseless 
tread  and  took  one  long  step  toward  the  desk.  Teevan 
turned  his  head  and  looked  up.  His  eyes  rested  on 
Ewing,  at  first  vacantly,  his  mind  still  busied  with  the 
matter  of  his  writing.  Ewing  thrilled  with  a  sudden 
alertness,  his  purpose  growing  in  his  eyes,  his  hands 
tensely  closing  and  unclosing.  Teevan  started  back 
from  the  desk,  conscious  now  of  the  intruder's  menace. 
Yet  such  was  the  cool  fixedness  of  Ewing's  gaze,  the 
hypnotic  tenseness  of  his  crouch,  that  the  little  man 
made  no  sound;  only  stared  as  one  under  a  spell,  the 
pen  still  held  in  his  poised  hand. 

Only  when  the  crouching  figure  leaped  toward  him 
did  his  lips  open.  But  then,  what  would  have  been  a 

307 


Ewing's  Lady 


cry  of  terror  became  a  mere  gurgling  snarl,  for  Ewing's 
hands  had  met  about  his  throat  with  unerring  deftness. 
Teevan  was  half-raised  from  the  chair,  his  head  was 
forced  back,  and  for  an  instant  his  eyes  met  Ewing's 
in  full  consciousness.  Then  his  mouth  opened  wide, 
but  not  for  speech,  and  his  eyes  rolled  in  the  agony  of 
that  choking  grip.  Ewing  felt  the  thing  writhe  in  his 
clutch,  then  felt  a  sudden  terrible  relaxation,  and  his 
pressure  ceased  in  unthinking  response  to  this.  He 
stood  a  moment,  holding  the  limp  form,  then  dropped 
it  in  the  chair,  feeling  himself  sicken  at  the  sheer  physical 
horror  of  what  he  was  doing.  There  was  no  pity  for 
Teevan — only  for  the  animal  that  suffered.  He  had 
had  to  kill  a  dog  once  and  his  loathing  of  that  deed  was 
like  this.  Teevan's  head  lay  over  on  his  shoulder,  his 
face  distorted  and  purple,  his  eyes  upturned  and  fixed 
in  a  hideous  stare.  The  fine  little  hands  hung  limply 
down. 

At  the  moment  Ewing  believed  his  task  was  done, 
but  then  he  was  dismayed  by  a  gasping,  indrawn  breath 
and  the  convulsive  shuddering  of  Teevan's  chest.  The 
little  man  was  breathing  again,  though  still  unconscious. 
The  dog  had  shown  this  same  horrible  tenacity.  He 
must  do  the  thing  all  over  again.  He  bent  over  the 
figure,  again  fixing  his  grip  nicely  at  the  throat.  He 
would  make  sure  this  time.  Then  nerving  himself  to 
exert  the  needed  pressure,  he  turned  his  eyes  away — 
he  could  not  look  at  the  face  in  its  death  agony — 
turned  his  eyes  away  and  found  himself  staring  stupidly 
at  Alden  Teevan,  who  stood  inside  the  door.  They  gazed 
at  each  other  a  moment  until  Ewing  had  appraised  the 
significance  of  this  interruption.  It  meant  only  that 
he  would  be  swiftly  apprehended,  for  he  knew  that 

308 


The  Mission  of  Ewing 


Alden  Teevan  could  not  save  his  father.  He  had  not 
changed  his  position,  still  bending  over  the  little  man,  still 
fingering  his  throat.  He  was  conscious  of  an  increase 
in  his  purpose;  this  hint  of  opposition  would  enable 
him  to  kill  Teevan  with  a  better  spirit.  He  spoke 
and  his  voice  was  only  a  little  hoarse  under  the  strain. 

"I'm  killing  your  father.  I  don't  want  to  hurt  you, 
but  you  mustn't  try  to  stop  me.  If  you  do,  by  God! 
I'll  kill  both  of  you.  If  you  keep  away  I'll  go  with  you 
after  I've  done  it.  I  promise  that." 

He  turned  again  to  the  livid  face  beneath  him.  But 
the  younger  Teevan  called  sharply  to  him,  though  with 
only  irritation  in  his  voice: 

"Stop!  Don't  be  an  ass!  You're  making  an  ass  of 
yourself!" 

Ewing  only  stared  at  him.  The  other  came  a  step 
nearer  in  his  eagerness. 

"You'll  be  sorry  if  you  don't  listen  to  me.  You're  a 
fool,  I  tell  you." 

Ewing  smiled  confidently,  bitterly,  not  relaxing  his 
hold  of  the  little  man's  throat. 

"I'm  not  doing  it  for  myself." 

"All  the  more  fool!" 

"  For  some  one  who  couldn't  do  it — who  has  reason  to 
do  it." 

The  other  came  nearer,  clutching  Ewing's  sleeve  with 
gentle  persuasion  and  speaking  with  quick  intensity. 

"Ah,  so  that's  it— she  never  told  you!  But  you're 
a  fool.  She  had  no  reason— she  was  merely  trying  to 
save  you  from  the  truth  about  your  mother,  and  she  has 
let  you  believe  his  lies  about  herself.  What  a  rotten 
fool  you  were  to  think  that  contemptible  little  mucker 
could  ever  have  been  anything  to  her.  He  lied  to  you, 

309 


Ewing's  Lady 

do  you  hear  me?  Lied  to  you  about  her,  and  she  let 
you  believe  it — a  fool  herself  for  doing  that — so  you 
wouldn't  know  the  truth  about  your  own  mother." 

Slowly  Ewing  unclasped  his  hands  from  the  throat  of 
Teevan  and  stood  facing  the  son.  Two  phrases  rang  in 
his  ears:  "He  lied  to  you  about  her — the  truth  about 
your  mother."  He  put  up  a  hand  to  loosen  his  collar. 
It  seemed  now  as  if  he  himself  were  being  choked. 

"The  truth  about  my  mother — what  truth  about  my 
mother?" 

"Sit  down  there." 

"What  truth  about  my  mother?" 

"Come — get  hold  of  yourself.  The  truth  that  your 
mother  happened  to  be  my  mother." 

Ewing  passed  a  hand  over  his  face,  as  if  to  awaken 
himself  from  some  trance  in  which  he  had  moved. 

"Sit  down  there." 

He  felt  for  a  chair  now  and  sank  awkwardly  into  it, 
repeating  dazedly: 

"My  mother  was  your  mother — "  He  could  get  no 
meaning  from  the  words.  The  other  answered  sharply : 

"Your  mother  married  my  father.  She  left  him  for 
your  father  when  I  was  a  baby.  Do  you  understand 
that?  Mrs.  Laithe  knew  it.  He  knew  it — "  He 
pointed  toward  the  limp  but  breathing  figure  in  the  chair 
— "and  she  was  afraid  he  would  tell  you." 

He  tried  to  take  it  in. 

"My  mother — his  wife?  Ah — you — you  are  my 
brother." 

"That's  beside  the  point;  but  if  it  means  anything 
to  you,  listen  to  me — try  to  understand." 

Again  and  again  he  told  the  thing  point  by  point, 
as  simply  as  he  could,  while  his  listener  stared  curiously 

310 


The  Mission  of  Ewing 


at  him.  The  figure  in  the  chair  stirred,  the  head  rolled, 
the  breathing  became  quieter  and  more  even,  but  neither 
gave  any  heed  to  this. 

At  last  the  incredible  thing  began  to  shape  itself  in 
Ewing's  mind,  but  it  was  not  until  the  very  last,  and 
then  it  came  as  a  sudden  blinding  illumination.  The 
man  in  the  chair  drew  a  long,  shuddering  breath  and 
opened  his  eyes  on  them.  Ewing  at  the  same  moment 
caught  the  full  force  of  the  little  man's  deceit.  He 
had  felt  no  anger  toward  Tee  van  before,  but  now  rage 
grew  within  him  as  he  remembered  what  the  woman  had 
suffered.  He  sprang  toward  Teevan,  feeling  no  longer 
a  specific  desire  to  kill,  but  only  a  mad  impulse  to  beat 
down  and  blindly  destroy. 

"You  lied  about  her!"  he  cried,  towering  above  the 
little  man  with  clenched,  threatening  fists.  If  Teevan 
had  retorted,  had  raised  a  hand,  or  betrayed  anything 
but  abject  fear,  shrinking  in  his  chair,  turning  eyes  of 
appeal  to  his  son,  Ewing  would  have  vented  his  rage. 
But  this  died  into  mere  loathing  as  he  looked.  Teevan 
was  near  to  whimpering,  in  his  fear.  Ewing  turned 
away  with  a  gesture  of  replusion. 

"That's  best,  after  all,"  remarked  the  son  coolly. 

"  Doubtless  he  deserves  kicking  more  than  any 
unkicked  man  alive,  but  you'll  be  glad  you  didn't 
do  it." 

Ewing  shot  another  look  at  Teevan,  and  then  said, 
almost  as  if  to  himself. 

"How  wise  my  mother  was!"  He  turned  again  to 
the  little  man  with  a  sudden  blaze  of  scorn. 

"  And  you  believed  I  could  think  less  of  her  for  leaving 
you — leaving  you  for  a  man!"  Teevan  merely  closed 
his  eyes  and  cautiously  raised  a  hand  to  his  neck. 

311 


Ewing's  Lady 


"You'll  be  glad  you  let  him  off,"  repeated  the  son, 
"and  so  will  she.  She  wouldn't  have  you " 

'Ah — she!"  It  was  a  cry  of  remembrance.  "Why 
— she's — ''  He  broke  off,  glowing  with  a  strange  illu- 
mination. "Why,  I  left  her " 

A  moment  longer  he  stood,  like  a  sleeper  wakened, 
then  rushed  from  the  room. 


312 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

THE   TURNING   OF   COONEY 

T  ]f  THEN  she  again  felt  sure  of  her  strength  she 
V  V  began  to  unsaddle  Cooney.  The  cinches 
bothered  her  stiffened  fingers,  but  she  had 
them  worked  loose  at  last,  and  lifted  the  heavy  saddle 
off,  smiling  grimly  at  her  own  strength.  When  she 
took  off  the  blanket  she  warmed  her  hands  a  moment 
in  its  heat.  Then  she  stripped  off  the  bridle,  and  the 
little  horse,  after  a  moment's  mouthing  to  rest  his  jaws 
from  the  bit,  fell  to  grazing.  As  he  seemed  inclined 
to  stay  by  her,  she  broke  a  switch  from  one  of  the  near- 
by bushes  and  cut  him  sharply.  Even  after  this  he 
galloped  off  but  a  little  way,  with  astonished,  resentful 
shakings  of  his  head.  She  had  wanted  him  to  be  on  his 
way  back  over  the  miles  he  had  come  before  the  thing 
was  done. 

She  glanced  shrewdly  about  her.  She  was  far  away 
from  the  cabin,  a  night's  ride  at  Cooney's  best  trail 
pace,  and  in  a  region  rough  and  untraveled,  except  as 
an  occasional  way  to  the  lower  valleys.  There  were  no 
trails  about  her,  no  dead  camp  fires,  no  trees  rimmed 
by  the  axe  or  scarred  by  a  "blaze."  There  was  life 
enough  of  a  sort ;  jays  called  harshly,  and  squirrels  barked 
their  alarm;  and  half  a  dozen  grouse  eyed  her  from  a 
few  yards'  distance,  with  a  sort  of  half-timid  stupidity. 
But  there  was  no  life  to  touch  hers.  She  walked  about 
the  chosen  thicket,  admiring  its  denseness,  not  notable 

3*3 


Ewing's  Lady 


in  any  way,  but  casual,  improbable  to  the  searching 
eye. 

"The  hardest  thing!"  It  was  satire  now,  and  she 
murmured  it  as  such,  done  with  all  fighting.  It  was 
good  to  anticipate  the  thing,  the  restfulness  of  extinc- 
tion— or  not,  as  that  might  be.  That  was  no  matter. 
She  was  beaten  in  this  life.  It  was  good  to  know  that 
in  a  moment  she  would  feel  as  little  as  Randall  Teevan — 
or  as  much.  She  unconsciously  drew  herself  up  at  the 
thought  of  facing  that  withered  fop. 

She  rejoiced  in  the  warming  air.  She  would  take  a 
long  breath  of  it,  and  then  the  triumphant  exit.  She 
stepped  a  few  paces  forward  to  peer  about  a  low-growing 
spruce  that  had  shaded  her.  She  had  a  last  fancy  for 
following  the  echo  of  her  shot  to  the  farther  valley  wall. 

As  she  lifted  the  curtain  boughs  the  sun  dazzled  her. 
She  would  see  its  golden  points,  she  thought,  when  she 
shut  her  eyes  in  the  thicket.  She  shut  them  quickly 
now,  to  prove  this,  and  saw  the  myriad  dancing  lights. 

As  she  opened  her  eyes  again  and  turned  to  draw  back 
into  the  wood  there  was  imprinted  curiously  on  her 
recovering  vision  a  silhouette  of  the  lake  cabin.  She 
shut  them  quickly  again,  dreading  memories  she  was 
forever  done  with,  and  laughing  in  the  certainty  that 
the  cabin  was  miles  away.  Then  she  looked  again, 
blinking  dazedly  in  the  sunlight,  and  the  cabin  loomed 
before  her  across  the  clearing. 

As  she  stared  desperately,  her  mind  roused  to  frantic 
denials,  her  eyes  straining  to  banish  this  monstrous 
figment,  the  door  of  the  cabin  opened  and  Ewing  came 
out.  She  sprang  forward  with  an  impulse  to  shatter 
the  illusion  by  some  quick  movement.  But  her  eyes 
still  beheld  him,  bareheaded,  turning  his  face  up  to  the 

314 


The  Turning  of  Cooney 


sun.  He  stretched  his  arms  and  drew  deep  breaths. 
He  had  never  seemed  so  tall.  His  look  had  a  kind  of 
triumph  in  it. 

She  swayed  under  the  shock  of  the  thing,  feeling  her- 
self grow  faint.  Cooney  had  betrayed  her.  Some  time 
in  the  night,  at  one  of  those  confusing  bends  in  the  trail, 
he  had  turned.  He  had  brought  her  home. 

Ewing's  head  had  turned  as  she  moved ;  his  eyes  were 
on  her.  She  saw  the  rapt  gladness  in  his  face  and  beheld 
him  approach  her  across  the  clearing.  She  managed 
another  step  or  two  and  gained  the  support  of  a  felled 
tree.  As  Ewing  came  up  she  essayed  a  little  smile  of 
nonchalance. 

"Cooney — "  she  begun.  The  word  came  itself,  but 
she  felt  easier  under  the  sound  of  her  own  voice  and 
went  on — "Cooney  came  with  me.  I  didn't  go  at  all. 
I  rode — but  you  see — "  She  beamed  on  him  with 
explanatory  embarrassment — "  I  took  an  early  morning 
ride — it  was  so  pleasant — and  I  thought  I  was  lost — in- 
deed I  did,  and  I  took  off  his  saddle.  I  left  it  right 
there — "  She  pointed  with  the  literal  exactness  of  a 
child  in  its  narrative  of  adventure — "  right  there  behind 
that  tree,  and  then  I  found  I  was — found  I  was  closer 
to  home  than  I  thought." 

He  had  not  seemed  to  hear  her,  but  stood  looking 
narrowly,  as  if  she  were  still  far  away.  Gradually  his 
eyes  widened,  as  if  he  were  drawing  her  close  to  him. 
He  took  a  step  toward  her,  with  arms  half  raised. 

"I'm  so  ashamed—"  he  muttered;  "but  you— you 
let  me  think  that." 

His  voice  brought  her  to  sudden  agonized  alarm. 
The  blood  ebbed  from  her  face  and  she  almost  staggered 
toward  him. 

315 


Ewing's  Lady 


"Did  you  do  it— do  that?"  she  whispered,  ready  to 
fall.  ' 

"No;  I  found  out  in  time.  I  found  out  everything — 
everything  you  didn't  tell  me."  He  was  shaken  with 
longing,  yet  shamed  into  restraint  before  her. 

"I'm  so  ashamed — I  came  as  soon  as  I  could  to  tell 
you.  I  rode  all  night  to  be  here,  to  tell  you  as  soon  as 
I  could." 

"You  didn't  do  it — you  didn't  do  it?"  she  insisted 
pitifully. 

"I  stopped  in  time."  She  muttered  this  over  and 
over,  and  at  last  the  truth  struggled  into  her  chilled 
brain. 

"You  dear,  dear  fool!"  she  said  with  a  little  sobbing 
laugh. 

Again  his  arms  were  half  raised  to  her,  but  she  turned 
swiftly  and  ran  to  Cooney,  who  had  fallen  to  grazing  a 
little  way  off,  throwing  her  arms  about  his  neck  and 
weeping  out  incoherent  words  of  endearment. 

Ewing  gathered  his  strength,  like  a  wrestler  who  has 
been  pressed  to  the  ground,  but  lifts  himself  with  in- 
finite effort,  and  went  resolutely  toward  her.  Gently  he 
unclasped  her  arms  from  Cooney's  neck. 


(i) 
THE  END 


316 


A  STORY  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE. 


David  Harum. 

Illustrated  Edition.  With  70  full-page  and 
text  pictures  by  B.  West  Clinedinst,  and  other 
text  designs  by  C.  D.  Farrand,  and  a  biography 
of  the  author  by  Forbes  Heermans.  i2mo. 
$1.50. 

"What  seems  to  us  to  be  the  final  judgment  of  'David  Harum'  is 
given  in  the  North  American  Review  by  no  less  a  personage  than  John 
Oliver  Hobbes.  This  review  strikes  at  the  root  of  the  matter. 

" '  It  would  not  be  presumptuous  to  say,'  opines  Mrs.  Craigie,  'well 
remembering  the  magnificent  ability  of  certain  English  authors  of  the 
present  day,  that  not  one  could  create  a  character  which  would  win  the 
whole  English  population  as  David  Harum  has  won  the  American 
public.  The  reason  is  plain.  With  so  many  class  distinctions,  a  na- 
tional figure  is  out  of  the  question.  A  national  hero — yes;  but  a  man 
for  "  winterin'  and  summerin'  with" — no.  Social  equality  and  inde- 
pendence of  thought,  in  spite  of  all  abortive  attempts  to  introduce  the 
manners  and  traditions  of  feudal  Europe,  are  in  the  very  air  of  the 
United  States.  One  could  not  find  an  American  man  or  woman  of  the 
true  stock  who  had  not  known  intimately,  or  who  did  not  count  among 
his  or  her  ancestors,  connections,  relatives,  a  David  Harum.  The  type, 
no  doubt,  is  getting  old  :  becoming  more  and  more  "removed"  from  the 
younger  generation.  In  the  course  of  the  next  twenty  years  it  may 
become  so  changed  as  to  seem  extinct,  but  it  is  a  national  figure — cer- 
tainly the  most  original,  probably  the  purest  in  blood.  And  the  spirit 
of  Harum  is  the  undying  spirit — no  matter  how  much  modified  it  may 
eventually  become  by  refinement,  travel,  and  foreign  influence — of  the 
American  people.  Individuals  may  change,  but  the  point  of  view 
remains  unalterable. '  "—New  York  Mail  and  Express. 

"  '  David  Harum '  is  one  of  those  extremely  rare  and  perfectly  fresh 
creations  in  current  fiction  which  really  enrich  our  literature.     In  brief, 
it  is  a  masterpiece,  and  one  that  deserves  an  immense  popularity, 
words  can  adequately  describe  its  wholesome,  sparkling  humor,  il 
and  endearing  originality,  its  genuine  Yankee  wit  and  native  shrewdness, 
A  well-nigh  perfect  work  it  is— a  creation  which  will  take  a  permanen 
place  among  American  literary  portraits."— Literary  Review. 

D.    APPLETON    AND    COMPANY,    NEW    YORK. 


THE  LEADING  NOVEL  OF  TODAY. 


The  Fighting  Chance. 

By  ROBERT  W.  CHAMBERS.  Illustrated  by  A.  Bt 
Wenzell.  I2mo.  Ornamental  Cloth,  $1.50. 

In  "  The  Fighting  Chance  "  Mr.  Chambers  has  taken 
for  bis  hero,  a  young  fellow  who  has  inherited  with  his 
wealth  a  craving  for  liquor.  The  heroine  has  inherited  a 
certain  rebelliousness  and  dangerous  caprice.  The  two, 
meeting  on  the  brink  of  ruin,  fight  out  their  battles,  two 
weaknesses  joined  with  love  to  make  a  strength.  It  is  re- 
freshing to  find  a  story  about  the  rich  in  which  all  the 
women  are  not  sawdust  at  heart,  nor  all  the  men  satyrs. 
The  rich  have  their  longings,  their  ideals,  their  regrets, 
as  well  as  the  poor ;  they  have  their  struggles  and  inherited 
evils  to  combat.  It  is  a  big  subject,  painted  with  a  big 
brush  and  a  big  heart. 

"  After  '  The  House  of  Mirth '  a  New  York  society  novel 
has  to  be  very  good  not  to  suffer  fearfully  by  comparison. 
4  The  Fighting  Chance '  is  very  good  and  it  does  not 
suffer." — Cleveland  Plain  Dealer. 

"There  is  no  more  adorable  person  in  recent  fiction 
than  Sylvia  Landis." — New  York  Evening  Sun. 

"  Drawn  with  a  master  hand." — Toledo  Blade. 

"An  absorbing  tale  which  claims  the  reader's  interest 
to  the  end." — Detroit  Free  Press. 

"  Mr.  Chambers  has  written  many  brilliant  stories,  but 
this  is  his  masterpiece." — Pittsburg  Chronicle  Telegraph. 

D.    APPLETON    AND    COMPANY,    NEW    YORK. 


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